


Summer Vacation

by Forest_of_Holly



Series: Holly at Hogwarts [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:46:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 55,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forest_of_Holly/pseuds/Forest_of_Holly
Summary: Things always happen when school's out especially when Muggle and Wizard worlds collide...





	1. Ivy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amanda Alice](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Amanda+Alice).



> For Amanda Alice and her grandmother, my mother, who always supported us in all our efforts--we miss you,

          “Gotcha!” said Scorpius causing Ivy Roxanne Malfoy to jump and squeal with surprise.  
          “Stop it!” she told him.  
          “Nope!” he told her; he waived his wand and vanished. “Gotcha again!” said Scorpius jubilantly from behind.  
          Ivy whirled to face him.  “I mean it!” she told him angrily.  “Leave me alone!”   
          “Never!” Scorpius laughed.  He waved his wand again and vanished.  “I’ve got to practice!” he told Ivy when he reappeared yet again behind her.  “Grandfather promised if I get real good, he’ll teach me how to Apparate like the Death Eaters did!  You know, silent smoke!”  
          “Death Eaters!” exclaimed Ivy.  “But they were criminals!”  
          “Doesn’t mean they didn’t practice some cool magic!” Scorpius assured Ivy.  “Magic that _wasn’t_ unforgivable!  And I plan to learn it!”  He waived his wand and vanished.   
          Ivy drew her own wand and twisted aiming for her wardrobe closet.  _“Accio Bomb!”_ she said as Scorpius again appeared. The Weasley stink bomb she had just summoned smashed into Scorpius on its way to her and exploded into a thick black cloud smelling of skunk.  Ivy swiftly used a bubblehead charm to avoid breathing in the stench.  “Can you _Apparate_ with a bubblehead charm?” she challenged Scorpius who was loudly coughing. He waved his wand and vanished. Ivy smiled.  They’d never had a reason to use the bubblehead charm while at H2, but it sure came in useful for other occasions.  
          She walked over to the wardrobe closet, pulled out a Weasley Air Freshener and set it off.  It was guaranteed to remove the effects of a Weasley Stink Bomb. While the clouds and stench dissipated, Ivy moved over to her bed, to her stack of _Witchteen Fashion_ magazines, more accurately.  
          Ever since Scorpius had passed his Apparating test, he’d been insufferable.  Of course, he’d also been insufferable after Richards had parleyed that simple spinal injury into a tidy profit netting more for Scorpius than Ivy! Why hadn’t he just let the bludger hit _her_ instead—then _she’d_ have gotten the money!  Actually, Scorpius had been insufferable at H2 when, what should have been some sort of punishment of Grandfather’s, had turned him into the resident Dark Arts Expert and one of the Advisers!  Scorpius got all the breaks!  Why hadn’t _she_ found the Hand and brought it to school?  
          But Ivy would show them!  Buried between the magazines was a slender pamphlet titled _“Apparating.”_ The vendor had frowned disapprovingly when Ivy wanted to see the pamphlet on the shelf behind the counter and told her it was not appropriate for someone her _age,_ as if she were some _baby_ …  So Ivy had lied and told him it was a gift for her brother who had failed his Apparating test five times already and gotten horribly splinched twice! Sure, most students learned Apparating while at school!  But you had to wait until sixth year to learn! Ivy knew Wycliff could Apparate  _before_ classes were even offered! Ivy intended to do the same.  
          Written by Wilkie Twycross himself (Hogwarts Apparation Instructor) the pamphlet promised to be most informative.  Ivy had spent hours late at night secretly pouring over the yellowed brittle pages deciphering the cramped handwriting certain her family would try to stop her if they knew what she intended.  Unfortunately, the pamphlet was not as useful as she had hoped. There were no illustrations and Twycross apparently wrote it as a supplement specifically _for_ students who were taking his class or had taken his class yet failed the test!  In other words, he expected the reader to already know the basics of Apparating and he was just offering tips to improve Apparating skills…  
          Not to be deterred, Ivy had memorized the contents of the pamphlet and then surreptitiously began asking Scorpius questions for the information it lacked.  “How do you determine where you Apparate?” she had asked Scorpius one day knowing that “Determination” was one of the three D’s Twycross constantly referred to.  
          “’Tisn’t that kind of Determination,” laughed Scorpius. “You’ve got to really, really, mean to Apparate before you Apparate!” he told her.  
 _“I’ve got that one covered!”_ thought Ivy with satisfaction.  “So, do you have to go where you’ve already been?” she persisted at another time.  “Destination” was another one of the other three D’s.  
           “’Course not!” replied Scorpius in a serious voice.  “Only if you want to know where you end up!”  He laughed again.  
          Even though no wand was mentioned, the wand was important somehow; you couldn’t Apparate without a wand.  
          Ivy knew she was supposed to turn with _Deliberation,_ another of the three D’s, but she wasn’t sure which way or how much.  However, she’d been watching Scorpius.  She watched that wand in his hand, how he lifted and moved it; and saw that barest of twist to the left just before he vanished.  In secret Ivy practiced what she had seen.  She’d get it!  All on her own!  That would show them!  
          Ivy took an apple from the fruit basket on her desk. Grandmum had gotten the basket for her upon their return from Hogwarts.  She seemed to think Ivy should eat fruit instead of “sugary” snacks. Grandmum had the _gall_ to suggest Ivy had “taken on weight” after her stay at Hogwarts.  Of course Ivy had “taken on weight” while at Hogwarts!  She had been a skinny twig after H2!  A weight gain was natural after _starving_ at H2!  As far as Ivy was concerned, no weight gain was too much!  She never wanted to again feel the hunger she had experienced while at H2!  
          Ivy placed the apple on the floor and stepped back.  She knew Twycross used circles on the floor as focus destinations, but a circle on the floor would cause questions should anyone see it.  No one would think twice if they saw an apple there.  She had probably knocked it off and left it for the brownies to pick up. Everyone knew Ivy hated apples! Especially after H2.   
           Ivy stepped away from the apple and drew her wand. “Determination, Destination, Deliberation,” she muttered to herself.  “Determination, Destination, Deliberation!”  Ivy raised her wand and closed her eyes, “Determination, Destination, Deliberation,” she repeated and turned!  Nothing felt different.  Ivy cautiously opened one eye and then the other.  The apple was still over there and she wasn’t!  Ivy closed her eyes. “Determination, Destination, Deliberation,” she said firmly and turned faster!  Nothing.  This wasn’t working.  What else could she do?  
          She was certain she had the Determination right.  And the Deliberation, well, she didn’t know what else she could do about that, but the Destination?  Frankly, Ivy had no interest in Apparating to the other side of the room. She wanted to go someplace new and different!  Where else could she go?  Diagon Alley was out.  It was always crowded and she risked Apparating inside someone.  Besides, it was bad form to Apparate in and out of Diagon Alley...  Knockturn Alley?  That would be interesting, but Ivy didn’t know it well enough to make it a destination. Where else?  
          Ivy’s eyes fell upon her _Witchteen Fashion_ magazine.  The cover featured Alana Warrington.  She had blue eyes, pale skin and light brown hair.  Alana had always worn the latest fashions under her school robes while at Hogwarts.  And now she was a teen model!  How _dare_ they use Alana to represent the teens! She was seventeen at least or older—barely a teen!  They should have given the job to her!  Ivy was far prettier with her silky blonde hair and much more fashionable.  She had applied to be a  _Witchteen_ model but the editor had told Ivy she was too _young!_ Thirteen was  _not_ too _young!_  
 _“That’s it!”_ thought Ivy excitedly. _“I can do my own photo shoot and show them what a_ real  _model looks like!  Maybe I’ll even start up my_ own  _magazine!”_ Ivy moved to the magazines. _“Ivy the model!”_ she fanaticized. _“No, not “Ivy”—that’s too childish,”_ Ivy decided. _“Roxanne the model!  Yes!  No!—too stodgy.  “ Roxy!” _Ivy thought excitedly.  That was it. _“I’ll be the famous Roxy!  But which background do I want for my photo?”_ she asked herself.  Ivy rapidly thumbed through the magazines.  One showed Warrington displaying the latest fall fashions while posing in front of some thick gnarled tree trunks. _“No,”_ Ivy thought to herself with a shudder,  _“that looks like in the Forbidden Forest.  That place has spiders!”_ The next magazine featured the Eiffel Tower in the background. _“Definitely not!”_ Ivy decided. _“They don’t speak English there!  And I heard they eat snails!”_ Ivy didn’t want to go to any place where the people ate stuff she would only consider consuming after weeks of hunger.  Even then, she might choose starving first.  Snails? Yeech! Another photo showed a busy market street in the background.  _“No,”_ thought Ivy, _“too many people…”_    
          After much consideration, Ivy selected a photo showing the model, not Warrington, lounging in a hammock sipping a frothy drink that kept changing colours.  The hammock floated over a neatly trimmed lawn.  Blue-green peacocks moved about casually in the foreground and stately beech trees lined up in the background swaying gently with the breeze.  Different, but not too wild, majestic, and definitely not foreign.   
          Ivy studied the background carefully.  Yes, that was definitely a place she wanted to visit and there was enough background for her to focus on.  If this worked, she would return with the camera properly dressed for a photo shoot.  With one hand she held the magazine and the other her wand.  “Determination, Destination, Deliberation,” she said firmly and turned.  Nothing.   
          Ivy tried again. She stared at the photo until she could see the leaves on the tree flutter in the breeze, could almost hear birds chirping in the branches and the peacocks squawk...  She turned.  Abruptly everything went black!  Ivy felt herself being pressed very hard from all directions.  She could not breathe; there were tight bands around her chest squeezing ever tighter, her nose pushed inwards, her eyeballs were forced back into her head, her eardrums were pushed deeper into her skull…

*****

          A bright light! _Pain!_  More pain than Ivy Malfoy had ever imagined, and then, nothing.

*****

          “I wasn’t drinking!  I swear!”  
          “Then how do you explain doing this—a-gain!” answered another voice angrily.  
          “I don’t know!  I was driving along and all of the sudden she was just there, I swear!”  
          The voices were unfamiliar and the words made no sense to Ivy Malfoy.  She opened her eyes and was immediately blinded by the bright almost white light overhead.  She closed her eyes while the voices continued.  
          “Yeah, right!  And to think I had actually thought you’ve changed after what happened to Jane!”  
          “I did change, I swear!  I wasn’t drinking!”  
          “And how could you do this to Jane!?” the angry voice raged on.   
          “How could I do this to Jane?” questioned the voice. “What do you mean?”  
          “I mean, the first time I let you on your own, you abandon her and pick up a, a _baby!”_  
           “Jane and I aren’t dating!” the first voice exploded.  “I thought you knew that!  We just go to concerts together! It’s not like you let me see anyone else!” the voice reminded.  “And I didn’t pick her up!” he denied, “at least not until after—I swear, she was just there!”   
           “And what is she doing _here?”_  
           Ivy wondered the source of their anger.  Who was “she?"  
           “I couldn’t take her to a hospital after last time!” came the reply.  
           “Meadowsgate?”  
           “No!  It’s too far away!  Besides, look at her!  She’s too young for Meadowsgate!  _Jane_ was too young for Meadowsgate!”  
           “But it worked!”  
           “And I was drunk!  This time I’m not and she’s _not_ going to Meadowsgate!  She can stay in one of our guest rooms while she recovers.  Now, I already called a physician.  He’s very good and confidential.  He even has a portable X-ray machine!”   
           “A physician?” asked the angry voice a pitch higher than before.  “You already called a _doctor?_   How did you find one so fast?”  
           “I made inquiries after last time, what do you think?” snapped the reply.  “Now, aside from the lacerations, fractured pelvis and a couple dislocated bones, she isn’t that bad off so there’s no reason she can’t stay here.”    
           “Lacerations?”  
           Abruptly Ivy felt a sudden breeze on her chest; she shivered from the unexpected coolness.  The shivering hurt causing Ivy to moan in pain.  
           “See?  Deep cuts, they look like slashes almost, on her neck and chest.  They needed stitches, a lot of stitches.”   
            _“Stitches?”_ wondered Ivy idly.  _“Like for making quaffles?”_   Involuntarily, her mind flew to H2, the prison where she had first seen sewing…  _“No!”_ she thought in a panic, _“I can’t be there!  They promised!”_  
           “Slashes?  Like from broken glass?” continued the angry voice oblivious of Ivy’s distress.  
 _“Me?”_ she thought suddenly.  _“Are they talking about me?”_ Warmth returned; Ivy felt someone tuck something (sheet? blanket?) under her chin and shoulders.  
           “How would I know?” the other voice questioned angrily.  “It’s not from me!  Can’t be! You can check my windshield; its cracked, not broken…”  
           “I will!”  
           The voices fell silent.  Ivy drifted back to sleep.

*****

 

 


	2. Anthony

          “Thank you for coming to see me,” said Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.  “Won’t you have a seat?”  
          Anthony Richards stepped forward and sat in the indicated chair. Minerva studied him thoughtfully. Still slim and confident, Anthony was no longer the annoyingly arrogant, brash student of last year who actually _apologized_ for his activities with Pettigrew’s hand.   
          “Would you like some tea?” Minerva offered indicating the silver tea set engraved with an elaborate calligraphy “H” for Hogwarts.  
          “Yes, please,” replied Anthony.   
          “One lump or two,” questioned Minerva as she poured the tea.  
          “Ah, two,” replied Anthony.  Minerva added the sugar and handed the cup and saucer to Anthony.  
          “I expect you are wondering why I asked you here today,” began Minerva after they had both taken a sip of their tea.  
          “Yes.”  
          “It’s about the position of Headmistress’ Assistant,” she explained.  
          Anthony stiffened.   
          “As you know,” Minerva began, “the position was created merely as a way for you to atone for some of the indiscretions of the previous year.”   
          Anthony watched her warily.   
          Minerva continued.  “In my mind, you have more than redeemed yourself for those actions,” she told him.  And he had. Minerva had given him the title of “assistant” on impulse, a decision that had paid off beyond her wildest dreams. As far as she was concerned, Richards had played a large part in keeping the students together and alive while at H2. True, he had had help, but all people in leadership positions require help; Richards was actually smart enough to take advantage of that help.  He had also provided some ideas of his own that had significantly assisted rather than hindered their survival.  
          “Therefore, I have no right to expect you to continue on in that capacity.  However, something has come up and I find myself in need of a responsible, capable assistant. So, I would like to ask if you would be willing to continue on through the seventh year as my Assistant?   
          Richards straightened with the compliments.  “I would be honoured,” he said proudly. “What is it that needs to be done?”  
          Minerva smiled with relief.  “The Governors have agreed to a professor exchange,” Minerva told Anthony. “Two of our professors, professors Lovegood and Iverson, will be instructing at Beaubatons and two, professors Longbottom and Slughorn, at Durmstrang in the Fall.  I want you to meet the professors who are taking their places. You will be Hogwarts’ official representative.  Greet them properly.  Find out if they need any special accommodations while at Hogwarts. You will be in charge of coordinating their travel to and from Hogwarts and prepare their living quarters while at Hogwarts.  I want their transition to Hogwarts to go as smoothly as possible.  Can you do that?”  
          “Yes, ma’am!” replied Anthony confidently.  He seemed to straighten even further at the responsibility he was being handed.  It was real responsibility, not some made-up work.  
         “Excellent.  I want you to begin as soon as possible.  Here are the names and locations of the new professors.”  Minerva handed Anthony a scroll.  He unrolled it and looked at it as she continued.   
         “While I am sure these professors are experienced capable people, I don’t know them,” she told Anthony.  “And I had nothing to do with their selection.  I have resumes, of course,” Minerva told him, “but they rarely tell the whole story.  I am counting you to bridge that gap.  Make a personal assessment of these new professors and report back to me what you learn.  Can you handle that?”  
          “Yes, ma’am,” answered Anthony proudly.  “You can count on me!”  
          “I hope so,” replied Minerva.  She had other sources, of course; it would be interesting to see how those reports compared with Anthony’s.  “Your responsibilities will continue while they are at Hogwarts,” Minerva added.  “You will be their liaison to me.  I expect you to address any problems they may encounter while here.  Anything you cannot manage bring to my attention for further resolution.     
          “And expenses?” he inquired as he looked up from the scroll.  
          “Expenses?”  
          “For the trip.  You surely don’t expect me to venture into Europe proper without finances?”  
          “Of course not,” agreed Minerva realizing Anthony would know nothing about how requisition forms were done.  She opened a drawer and pulled out her bag of petty cash for emergencies.  “Here are 5 galleons for expenses,” she said handing him the small bag. Keep track of actual expenditures,” she told him. “I expect an itemized list upon your return.”   
          Richards frowned as he took the bag.  “That’s not enough,” he told her.  
          “Oh?”  
          “It’s one galleon minimum for a portkey to France alone and no doubt another one to Dundstrum.  That leaves only three for expenses.”  
          “Five _sickles_ for the portkey,” corrected Minerva sternly.  
          “That’s a public port key,” agreed Anthony smoothly.  “I suppose I could take it, but then there are the other destination expenses once I get to France…. Either way that only leaves three for other expenses including food and lodging…”  
          “Lodging!” sputtered Minerva in protest.  “You’re to  _meet_ them not _sleep_ with them!”  
          “One day to send introductory notes and set up the meeting, another day to actually meet.  Two days minimum at each school assuming everyone is able to meet on the same day…”  
          Minerva mentally rolled her eyes.  “Would ten galleons be more appropriate?” she asked.  
          Anthony smiled.  “Yes, ma’am.”  
          “I’ll contact Accounting and you can pick up the remainder tomorrow,” she told him.  “I expect an itemized list of all moneys spent and change.”  
          “Of course,” agreed Anthony.  “Now, about the clothing…”  
          “Clothing? Surely you have clothing?”  
          “Of course, but none suitable for a Headmistress’ Assistant representing Hogwarts to other schools and professors.  You don’t expect me to wear House colours do you?  The purple robe I obtained last year, at my own expense, I might add, is far too shabby now for such an activity.  And the badge I designed is equally worn and degraded…”  
          “Wear the badge you designed last year,” Minerva told him firmly.  “You’ve earned it and should wear it proudly; it represents survival against all odds at H2. But,” she relented, “a proper suit for this assignment that could also be worn around Hogwarts would be appropriate. I’ll contact Madam Malkin and authorize a new one for the trip.  It needs to be in purple, as the colour is not House specific.” Minerva pulled out a quill and made a note about the suit.  
          “Thank you.”  
          “One more thing,” Minerva continued as she placed the quill down. “They do not _sort_ at Beaubaxton and Dundstrum.  The professors leaving are also Head of Houses at Hogwarts.  They need to be replaced during their absence…”  
          “You want me to select new House Heads?” asked Anthony eagerly.   
          “No, but I will expect you to act as liaison between me and the new House Heads to resolve any problems that might arise,” Minerva told him.    
          “Of course,” agreed Anthony proudly. “You can count on me!”  
          “I knew I could.”  
          “Who will be the House Heads?” asked Anthony curiously.  
          Minerva reached into her drawer. “There will be enough disruption in student lives with the new professors,” Minerva said as she handed Anthony a scroll.  “I do not wish to add more, especially when it is not necessary.  These four individuals performed well last year and earned the respect of all the students.  I am sure they will be more than able to handle the responsibilities of a House Head.  Anthony removed the ribbon, unrolled it and read the names. 

Slytherin: Scorpius Malfoy  
Gryffindor: Conner Fitzpatrick  
Ravenclaw: Leila Pilkington  
Hufflepuff: Holly Wycliff

          “I have not yet informed them of my intention to have them become House Heads,” Minerva told him.  “I want _you_ to persuade them.”  
          “Me?”  
          “Yes.  They worked closely with you at H2.  You know how best to convince them to become House Heads.  You may tell them the position and responsibility comes with a small salary as incentive, if you wish,” Minerva added. “If you succeed in persuading them, then that salary is yours as well for your services in addressing the needs of the new professors.”  
          Anthony puffed up clearly liking the salary part. “And if I can’t persuade them?”  
          Minerva lowered the glasses on her nose so she could look at Anthony directly.  “Then I shall have to reconsider my estimation of your abilities and start looking for a new assistant,” she threatened.  This could work _only_ if Anthony got the others to agree. They had worked well as a team at H2 and Minerva was certain they could do the same at Hogwarts.  By making the “advisors” House Heads, with the same pay, they were on a level similar to Anthony.  The five were sure to collaborate to resolve with any problems that might arise.   
          Anthony gulped.  “You can count on me,” he assured Minerva.   
          “I hope so.”

*****


	3. Ivy

          When Ivy next opened her eyes she saw a cream coloured ceiling with a huge bright round thing sticking out the center.  Ivy lifted an arm to shade her eyes when, to her horror, she saw all sorts of stringy white things hanging from her hand!   _“NOoooo!”_ she thought in panic.  _“What is it?  Get it off me!”_   Instinctively, she reached with her other hand and tried to get it off!  But that hand was imprisoned:  tied firmly to her chest!   
          “No!” a strange voice said and Ivy felt a firm pressure on her wrist and shoulder where the stringy things were.  “Don’t move!” the voice ordered.  “You’ll hurt yourself!”  
          Ivy continued to struggle.  And then—nothing.

*****

          Ivy vaguely wondered what that huge round thing was that stuck out of the center of the ceiling when she opened her eyes...   At the same time she wondered where she was… Then she remembered the thing had been bright; and there were stringy things sticking out of her hand!  She tried to lift her hand to check; were they still there? But she couldn’t!  
          “Hey!” said a new voice pushing a shoulder firmly down. “Don’t struggle!  You’re O.K.!”  
          Ivy continued to struggle.  She couldn’t get anywhere though.  She couldn’t lift her hand, couldn’t even sit up; she couldn’t kick her legs!  Ivy finally stopped long enough to look for the reason why.  To her horror, she saw bands on her arms tying them down and yes, those stringy things were still there!   
          “Let me go!” she screamed and renewed her struggles.  The words didn’t come out as she expected, more of a _croak_ than a scream.  
          “Quit struggling!” the voice repeated.  “You’re OK,” it assured, “but you must stop struggling! You’ll hurt yourself!”  
          Ivy swallowed and tried again.  “Let me go!” she ordered.  It came out as a scratchy whisper.  
          “Sure!” came the instant response.  The pressure on her shoulder lifted. “But you mustn’t move or you’ll hurt yourself!”  
          Ivy immediately renewed her struggles.  The pressure on her shoulder returned.   
          “Seriously!” the voice said.  “If you don’t lay still you’ll have to have surgery!”  
 _“Surgery?!”_   Wasn’t that what Wycliff kept moaning about wanting to do after Riley got injured at H2? What they would have done if only Wycliff had known how?  “You’re _Muggle!”_ Ivy exploded with sudden comprehension.  
          “What?”  
          Muggle!  Definitely Muggle or he would have known what she was talking about!  How had that happened?  “Uh, what about surgery?” Ivy questioned while her mind tried to figure out what had happened.   
          “Your pelvis!” began the voice.  “It’s fractured.  The Doctor says it could heal with proper bed-rest, but if that doesn’t work, then he’ll have to put a pin in or something…”  
          “Just give me some  _Tea,_ ” muttered Ivy remembering that bitter brew Goyle claimed made her shoulder feel better.  
          The voice laughed; it was rather a musical laugh.  “I’m afraid a spot of tea doesn’t cure everything. Doctor Harris is very good.  You follow his directions and you’ll be as good as new in no time.”  
          “I feel fine now!” Ivy asserted.  And she did.  A little light headed and weird, perhaps, but fine.   
          “That’s probably all the drugs,” assured the voice.  “You need to stay in bed for a while, though.”  
          “Why?”  
          “Well, besides the fractured pelvis you’ve got…”   
          The words didn’t sink in.  As long as she didn’t hurt, that was what mattered.  The speaker, on the other hand, Ivy looked at the person behind the voice—really looked at him.  Dark brown hair, tousled a bit, friendly brown eyes, clean-shaven—not bad looking, actually.  Pity he was a Muggle—or not.  Hadn’t Basu once said the Dark Lord was supposed to be Mudblood? It was during a discussion last year she had heard in the common room about why the Sorting Hat persisted in sorting _Mudbloods_ into the Slytherin House—they weren’t _pureblood_ , so how could they be Slytherins?  Ivy hadn’t really believed Basu at the time, she was an outsider after all, but then again…  Mother of the most powerful wizard in the world…  That had a nice ring to it…  
          “Uh, how did I get here?” asked Ivy when she realized the Muggle had quit speaking.  It really didn’t matter what he said somehow; she just liked hearing him talk.  
          “Uh, what do you remember?”  
          What did she remember?  She was in her room looking at pictures and then, “I did it!” Ivy blurted excitedly suddenly realizing she must have Apparated!  “Wait ‘till I tell my brother!”  
          “You mean you _meant_ to jump out in front of my auto?” questioned the Muggle sharply.  
          “Uh, no!” Ivy said with a frown.  What was an auto?  “Of course not!” she immediately backtracked.  
          “So what _did_ happen?” he questioned.  
          “Uh, I don’t remember…” Ivy answered.  She knew better than to explain any _witch_ activities to a _Muggle._ “What is that  _thing_ growing out of my arm?” she asked instead.  
          “Thing? What thing?” answered the Muggle.  He looked down at Ivy’s arms in confusion. “There’s nothing grow—oh, you mean the IV?” He leaned back removing his hand from her shoulder.  
          Ivy said nothing.  _Ivy!_   How could he know her name?  He couldn’t!  Therefore, he was talking about something else—something with the same name—but what? What did ivy have to do with the thing growing out of her arm?  Ivy was green and brown not white!  She had no idea but he took her silence for a “yes” and continued to speak.  
          “Yes, I can kind of see how you might think that was growing out of you,” said the Muggle.  There was a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.  Was he _laughing_ at her?  How _dare_ he!  Ivy scarce heard the explanation the Muggle gave afterwards. It had something to do with a needle, a _needle_ stuck into her skin, a needle by which other stuff was somehow moved into her body!  That white thing was a tube!!!!!  How could they?!!  It was _barbaric!_  
          “I want it out!” Ivy demanded when he stopped speaking. All her earlier warm, fuzzy feelings forgotten in her outrage.  How could they just poke things into her like that!  
          “What?” said the Muggle, in confusion.  “You want it out?  No. I can’t do that,” he told her.  “It’s got to stay there until you’re better!”  
          “I _am_ better!” Ivy insisted.  “I want it out _now!”_  
          “I told you—I can’t do that," the Muggle insisted.  “I couldn’t even if I wanted to.  I don’t know how.”  
          “Don’t know how?” echoed Ivy in disbelief.  “What do you mean?  Just take it out!  I’d do it myself if you hadn’t,” Ivy looked down again at her arms, “tied me down.”  
         “Yeah, well, the doctor tied your other arm to your chest because it was dislocated and can’t be moved,” he told her.  “I can’t take out the needle,” he continued.  “Only the doctor can, or a nurse,” he amended, “if the doctor agrees…”  
          “I want it out _now!”_ repeated Ivy and renewed her struggles to sit up, get at her hand, anything!   
          The Muggle again put his hands on her shoulder holding Ivy down. “Tell you what,” he said when she finally stopped for a breath.  “I’ll call the doctor; when he comes, you tell him what you want and we’ll go from there.”   
          Ivy glared.   
          “It’s the best I can do,” the Muggle told her with a helpless sounding voice.  That gleam was still there; it wasn’t as if Ivy could do anything but _not_ wait for this “doctor...”  
          “I want a proper _Healer!”_ Ivy muttered in frustration.  
          “Healer!” exclaimed the Muggle.  _“Now_ I understand.  Believe me, none of that holistic homeopathic stuff will help the kind of injuries you have!”   
          Ivy glowered.  “You know nothing!” she replied icily.  
          That cheerful gleam died away.  “I know you’re injured,” the Muggle said seriously, “and a bunch of _hacks_ off the street won’t make you better.  Now, you wait here and I’ll go call the Doctor.”  The Muggle stood releasing his hold on her and then left the room.  Ivy took the opportunity to struggle some more but her efforts were futile.  Exhausted, she finally lay back, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

*****

          When Ivy next woke, she saw a thin man with sandy-gray coloured hair sitting in a chair next to her.  Immediately, she flexed an arm to see if she was still strapped down. She was.  The motion caught the attention of the man.  He looked at her.   
          “Hello,” he said kindly.  “I’m Dr. Harris.  What’s your name?”  
           Ivy stared at him suspiciously.  “I-it’s Roxy, Roxy Maloy,” she told him.  
          “Pleased to meet you, Miss Maloy,” said the Doctor.  “I understand you wish to have the IV removed…”  
          “I want that, that  _thing_ out of my hand!” Ivy told him. “And I want those straps off too!” she added. “You wouldn’t need them if you got that _thing_ out of me!”  
          “I don’t advise that,” said the Doctor calmly.  “That IV is keeping your fluid levels normal and reducing any pain you might be experiencing.”  
          “I don’t hurt!” Ivy told him. “And I can drink just fine!”  
          “You wouldn’t say that if I stopped the medication.”  
          “Try me!” Ivy assured him.  “I want it out!”  
          “No,” he told her while shaking his head.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  
          “You’ve kidnapped me,” Ivy said dully.  “Tied me down and holding me against my will.”  She was prisoner to a _Muggle!_   At least Wycliff had been kidnapped by a Slytherin!   
          “What? NO!” exclaimed a different voice—that of the other Muggle she’d met who had been quietly sitting in a corner of the room at the other side while holding some flat gray board.  “You’re the one who jumped in front of my auto!” he told her in no uncertain terms.  “These injuries are all _your_ fault!  If you weren’t here, you’d be in some public hospital tied down the exactly same way so you wouldn’t injure yourself!”  The Muggle put the board down and got out of his chair. “Lookit!” he told Ivy coming to her side.  “You’re no kidnap victim!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black rectangle board.  He stared at it and then tapped it several times.  Then he bent down and untied the straps on her right wrist.  “Here!” he said handing her board.  It looked smooth and glossy with a series of numbers each in its own square of orange colour.  “Call your parents!” he told her.  “They’re probably worried sick about you!  I’ll tell them where you are and they can come pick you up!”  Ivy stared blankly at the numbers on the board. What did that have to do with calling her parents?  
          “Kind of hard to do with one hand,” the Muggle admitted. “O.K., I’ll call them for you!” he offered removing the board from her line of sight and holding a finger up expectantly.  Ivy looked at him with what she hoped was icy disdain.  The muggle lowered the board.  “You’re a runaway, aren’t you?” he accused.  
          “What? NO!” denied Ivy.  
          “Course you are,” argued the Muggle.  “Why else would you give us that phony name?”  
          “Phony?  It’s not phony!” denied Ivy.  
          “I _Googled_ it!” the Muggle told her confidently.  “It’s not anywhere!  No hits, no phone, no Facebook, no birth records, no school enrollment, no listing in Missing Persons reports, nothing!  Besides, _Roxy?_   Seriously? It sounds like a stage name from some _strip_ joint!”  
          Ivy felt her face warm.  She wasn’t even sure what he had said but she was certain she had been insulted!  
          “So,” began the Muggle again.  “What’s your name?  Your _real_ name!”  
          “What’s yours?” countered Ivy.  
          “It’s Greg,” he told her.  “Gregory Smythe.  And you can _Google_ it if you want!” he dared her.  “I know it’s unorthodox,” Smythe continued while addressing the Doctor, “but it seems really important to, ah, _Roxy,”_ he looked over at Ivy when he said that name and she felt her face warm in response, “to not have this IV.  Isn’t there any other way she can get the medication she needs, like by pills or something?  I’m sure she isn’t going to risk surgery by moving about excessively or anything…”  
          The Doctor looked over at Ivy.  She nodded agreeably.  Anything to get rid of that _thing!_ He sighed.  “I suppose,” he agreed reluctantly, “but you’ll have to watch her carefully to make sure she doesn’t develop a dependence…”  
          “Agreed,” said Smythe cheerfully.  
          The Doctor stood.  He fiddled with something hanging on thin shiny silver pole which had, Ivy now noticed, thick “strings” that extended to her hand.  Then he bent down and placed one hand on Ivy’s and the other… There was a sharp tug that pulled at Ivy’s skin and then … that dreadful thing was out!!!!!  Ivy looked—it _did_ look like a needle at the end, a dreadful ugly silver thing!  Positively barbaric!  No wonder mum and dad said Muggle medicine was primitive!  Ivy closed her eyes and leaned her head back onto the pillow in relief.  “I’ll send some pills by for when the pain kicks in,” Ivy heard the Doctor say.   
          Then Ivy felt some pressure on her hand.  She opened her eyes in alarm.  “What’s that?” she asked worriedly.   
          “It’s a band aid to stop the bleeding,” the Doctor told Ivy. “You can remove it later tonight if you wish.”  Then he unfastened Ivy’s wrist.   She lifted it and stretched her arm out while looking at her hand with the white paper stuck on the skin where the needle had been.  She wanted that off too, but suspected the Doctor would just attach another “band aid” on if she tried to take it off now.  She could wait…   
          “Now, you need bedrest for a while because you have a fractured pelvis,” the doctor told Ivy in a professional tone.  “And your right shoulder and elbow were dislocated—I put them back in place first thing,” he told her, “so hopefully there won’t be any permanent injury; that’s why that arm is in a sling and it’s taped to your chest so it is kept immobile but you need to let both rest for at least a week; then it’ll need physical therapy to regain proper range of motion…  I’ll be back tonight to check the dressing on your neck and chest…”  
          Ivy’s freed hand immediately went to her neck.  Sure enough, there was something pasted onto it. “What?” she questioned faintly.    
          “Lacerations!” the doctor said briefly.  “Lots of them!  And the muscles under the skin seemed to be twisted and turned inside out somehow.  I’ve never seen anything like it before.  It took 3 hours and 192 stitches to get things put even remotely back in place.  And I may have to do skin grafts if it doesn’t heal properly. What happened?” he asked her bluntly.  
 _“Splinched!”_ Ivy thought suddenly.  _“I’ve been splinched!”_   Scorpius had laughed while relating the splinching that occurred while at Hogwarts; it had never occurred to Ivy she could be splinched! “The auto?” she suggested hopefully knowing no Muggle would understand “splinching.”  
          “Not my auto!” asserted Smithe quickly.  “Not _that_ kind of injury!”  
          “Then I don’t know,” she told the Doctor.   
          He looked at her with open disbelief.  “Did someone do that to you?” he suddenly demanded.  “Is that why you ran?”  
          Ivy turned her head away from the Doctor.  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.  Let him think what he wished; she could add details or not after she had more time to figure things out.  At the moment, Ivy had more pressing matters to worry about…  “Uh, if you expect me to stay in bed,” she began hesitantly, “how do you expect me to, uh, you know...”  
          “Yes, it is about that time,” agreed the Doctor as if reading her mind. He stooped briefly and then stood holding a shiny odd shaped silver bowl with edges that curved in…  “Nurse Walsh?” the Doctor called out.  “Would you come in please?”  An elderly lady wearing some sort of cap stepped in. “This is Miss Maloy,” the Doctor said to the lady.  “Miss Maloy, this is Nurse Walsh.”   
          “A pleasure to meet you Miss,” said Walsh politely.  Ivy just stared back and then looked over at the Doctor.  
          “Mr. Smythe graciously took the time to engage the services of a private nurse to attend to your needs until you get better,” the Doctor told Ivy.  “And as you clearly have _need_ to use this,” he held up the silver bowl that curved over at the top, “I think it advisable to give you and Nurse Walsh a bit of privacy…  Come along Greg,” he told Smythe.  
          “Yes, of course,” agreed Smythe.  “See you later,” he told Ivy cheerfully.  Then the Doctor and Smythe left the room leaving Ivy alone with Walsh…

*****

 _“That was the most mortifying experience ever!”_ thought Ivy with embarrassment. _“The smell, the clean-up after, flimsy paper… No wonder mum said Muggles were dirty creatures!”_ Ivy had held her tongue with difficulty while Walsh explained the process of using a “loo” while lying on a bed…  It occurred to Ivy that she needed Walsh, at least until she could get out of the bed! It also occurred to Ivy that Muggle ways were primitive and truly different; she would need to learn them before she could escape and get back home.  That’s right, _escape!_  Smythe said she wasn’t a prisoner, but as far as Ivy was concerned, she was; she couldn’t leave and had no idea how to contact her family to arrange to leave…  That made the room a prison as strong as H2!   
          Ivy lifted her free hand and stared at the white stuff covering the place where the needle had been while trying to think of a way out. Nothing came to mind.  She lowered her hand and stared at the ceiling. Wycliff had supposedly been a prisoner for over a month, nearly two!  How had she managed?  Surely Ivy could do better!  How had Wycliff escaped?  Ivy suddenly realized the _Prophet_ accounts never discussed that part.  _“If Wycliff could escape, so can I,”_ thought Ivy with determination.  Then she closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.

*****

          Walsh had a bowl of creamy tomato soup and crackers waiting for Ivy when she next woke.  Ivy insisted on feeding herself though appreciated the help sitting up and things. The pain started after she tried to use that _bed pan_ again.  Deep, throbbing, everywhere!  Ivy didn’t say anything determined to not admit perhaps that horrible tube and needle might have actually helped.   
          But Walsh must have noted her expressions anyway. “Here,” Walsh said and she placed something small, oval and white in Ivy’s hand.  
          Ivy looked at it in confusion.  What was she supposed to do with it?  “What is this?” she asked.  
          “It’s for your pain,” Walsh answered.  “Go ahead, take it,” she encouraged as she brought up a glass of water with a straw.  Ivy hesitantly brought the item to her lips while watching Walsh closely.  Walsh smiled.  “That’s it,” she told Ivy.  “You’ll feel better afterwards.   
          Ivy closed her eyes, put it in her mouth and bit down… “Aghh!” she exclaimed as she spit out the foul tasting stuff!  “It’s awful!”  
          “You’re supposed to swallow it not chew it,” chastised Walsh briskly.  “Now drink up!  Swallow the rest of it!” she ordered as she held the straw close.  Ivy promptly drained the glass of water in an attempt to wash that foul taste from her mouth. “Give it some time and that should help,” Walsh told Ivy when she had finished. “Unfortunately, I don’t know how much you got into you but I can’t give you any more for another four hours!”  
          Whatever it was didn’t work very well but Ivy bore her pain in silence; she didn’t want that needle!  After four hours, Ivy managed to get all the oval thing (“pill” Walsh called it) down her throat without choking.  The pain did recede considerably after that, or maybe she was just getting better but at this point Ivy was not willing to risk it…

*****


	4. Holly

          Wizard Dean Thomas, Head of Magical Security, heard the knock on his office door even though it was the faintest of taps, but then, he was expecting it.  Dean hastily stood and opened the door. On the other side stood Holly Wycliff.  She looked up at him with wide green eyes holding a wand almost, but not quite, pointed at him.  
          “Hello, Miss Wycliff,” greeted Dean politely.  “Won’t you come in?” he invited while stepping back to let her enter.  Holly didn’t speak, didn’t move.  Dean mentally rolled his eyes in annoyance.  “Would you, ah, like my pin?” he questioned while reaching up to remove his boutonnière… Would he have to deal with this _every_ time?  
          “Where was I the last time we spoke?” Holly questioned while ignoring the offer of his pin.  Dean thought back. When was the last time they had spoken?  He’d seen Holly at the Memorial, but they hadn’t actually spoken. Thackeray’s?  “Outside the Holding cell.” Dean told her.  “You were wanting to go back to school with a friend!”   
          The wary stiffness vanished; Holly pocketed her wand and stepped into Dean’s office.   
          “Perhaps a special code or password would do,” suggested Dean while he re-pinned his boutonnière.   
          “Not at all,” she answered firmly while sitting. “Passwords are too easy to forget or steal and should be changed regularly.”  
          “I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean said while sitting at his desk across from Holly.  
          “You should ask me a question too,” she informed Dean gravely. “You know, to make sure I’m me…”  
          Dean stared.  Were they really having this conversation?  He, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, should be more worried about this than her… “What do you do when you encounter a person you’ve never met before who practices Occlumency?” he asked instead.  
          “Hang onto my wand very tightly,” came the answer.   
          Dean did not doubt that that was true.  “I begin to see why Luna, uh, Professor Lovegood asked you to work at the Ministry,” Dean said aloud, “and why I asked you here,” he added quickly not wanting to dwell on the thought of a very paranoid Holly loose with a wand in a crowd of Occlumency practicing strangers… “I want you on my team.”  
          “Oh, no!” Holly exclaimed rising from her chair.  “I won’t be a t—”  
          “Tool?” cut in Dean quickly before Holly could rabbit and leave.  “I know that. And this isn’t about your empathic abilities at all.  It’s about your wand.”  
          “Huh?”  
          “You’re good, Holly, very good,” he told her.  “And it’s time my aurors brushed up on their wand work. It’s easy to become complacent in times of peace. I want you to keep them on their toes.”  
          “Me?”  
          “Yes.  A dueling session with you included, much like the ones you’ve done at Hogwarts.”  
          “No, that would be telling.”  
          “Telling?”  
          “Who I am, what I can do, or not.  I don’t want people to know…”   
          “My people are sworn to secrecy,” countered Dean.  “They won’t talk,” he assured.  “The risk is you.”  
          “Me?”  
          “Yes—in revealing auror identities to _you_.  There are laws about that to protect them.  But there are ways around the laws and I think the training is more important than any laws.  You’re good, Holly.  I want my aurors to be just as good.  They’ve got to be the best to stop the dark wizards out there.  Now, you’ve been pretty closed mouthed about the auror identities you already know, so I figure the risk is minimal, but you’ll still have to sign some confidentiality papers similar to what you signed for Wizard Pilkington.  It won’t actually stop you from revealing things, but doing so will set off all sorts of alarm bells so we can prepare and act accordingly.”  
          Holly sank back down in her chair.  Dean waited while she mulled his words in her mind.  “No,” she told Dean.  “I can’t.”  
          “Oh?”  
          “I’ve read your vows,” she began.  “You’ve sworn to uphold the Ministry.  What if the Ministry should go Dark?  What then?”  
          “If the Ministry went “Dark” as you suggest,” Dean began thoughtfully.  “It would tear us apart.  Our vows—”  
          “Would be in conflict,” filled in Holly.  “Yes, I know.  And then you would be no more.  But “Darkness” is a matter of opinion.  Whose opinion?  In the years before Voldemort’s death, the Ministry started rounding up the Muggle born and accusing them of magic theft.  Was that Dark? Or just wrong?”  
          “Uh,” Dean had never thought about those days in those terms…  
          “Suppose the Ministry decides I’m dangerous—that it would be best to “lock” me up, for my “own good?”  
          “It would never—” protested Dean.  
          “It already has,” remind Holly, “to Cousin Harry!  Person of Interest?  Remember?”  
          “Yeah, I remember,” retorted Dean sharply. “That was over 25 years ago,” he reminded. “ _Before_ me. We’re not like that today!”  
          “Really?  Umbridge led many of those accusations 25 years ago,” Holly reminded.  “Nothing happened to her then; she was just following the laws!  She _kidnapped_ me, caused the stadium to collapse, and cast an Imperious Curse on Paige—numerous times!  Surely those were very _Dark_ acts yet she is not considered a “dark” witch; she walks the streets _free_ today.”   
          “Umbridge is _not_ the Ministry,” Dean said stiffly.  “And she won’t be— _ever_ again.”  
          “How many “wrong” acts may the Ministry commit before it is considered “Dark?” persisted Holly.  “There _is_ no number: your vows will never be in conflict with a _Dark_ Ministry because it’ll just be a bunch of laws, questionable laws, maybe wrong in some eyes, but never enough to be really “dark,” she assured.   
        “We are _not_ Ministry flunkies!” snapped Dean.  
          “You are _employed_ by the Ministry!”  
          “We receive a stipend, yes, but we operate _independent_ of the Ministry!”  Dean took a deep breath.  “We focus solely on eliminating _Dark_ Wizards and _dark_ magic wherever it is found. Can you ever believe Miss Vasari, Ravendra, would do anything even remotely dark?” he questioned.  
          “Well, no, but—”  
          “A Ministry decision to “lock” you up,” Dean continued returning to Holly’s own scenario, “Can you see Mr. DeWitt being a part of that no matter what the Ministry said?”  
          “Well, no, but I know them!” protested Holly.  
          “Exactly.  I’m told you’re a bit, … paranoid, Holly.”  Definitely an understatement. “Paranoia feeds upon itself,” Dean told her. “The best way to counter paranoia is information.  You know you can trust Dewitt and Vasari because you know them and they know you. It’s time you got to know some of the other aurors and they you.”  Dean leaned back.  “Think about it,” he told her.  “No pressure. But I think the training would be good for all of us...”

*****


	5. Ivy

          “I’m bored,” Ivy Malfoy told Smythe when he next stopped by for a visit.  And she was. She had to stay on her back to prevent excess weight on her pelvis.  From that position, Ivy could mostly only see that round thing on the ceiling.  Walsh called it a “light.”  Ivy got it now; when Walsh pressed a spot on the wall the round thing got bright making it easier to see in the night, without flame or smoke!  It looked a lot like “magic,” except it couldn’t be!  They were Muggles and Muggles couldn’t do magic!  The light was cold and harsh; Ivy longed for the cheerful flicker of a proper candle.  
          “Would you like some music?” he offered.  
          “Sure,” answered Ivy.  Actually, she wanted out!!!  But knew that wasn’t happening.  Failing that, Ivy was ready for any distraction.  
          Smythe pulled out a small flat rectangle and started tapping it. “What do you like, Jazz, Blues, Rock, Classical?”  He looked at her expectantly.   
          Ivy looked back.  None of that sounded like her kind of music.  “Blues,” she finally said wondering how music could sound a colour.  
          “Great!”  Smythe tapped the rectangle some more and suddenly sound erupted from it!  
          “How’d you do that?” exclaimed Ivy in surprise.  It was such a tiny bit of rectangle in his hand…  
          “Easy!” answered Smythe.  “Want me to show you?”  
          Ivy nodded.  
          And Smythe showed Ivy the other side of the rectangle board he was holding—a shiny surface filled with words. He placed his finger on the surface and gently slid it up and the words all changed!  Not only that, they changed as his finger moved!  A simple tap next to the words and new sounds, a different piece of music, erupted from the rectangle! “See?” he told her.  “It’s like magic!”  
          “No,” said Ivy seriously.  “Not magic, but close.  What is it?”  
          “It’s an iPod,” he told her.  “Want to try?”   
          Ivy nodded and for the rest of the afternoon Ivy moved her finger up and down one side “scrolled,” Smythe called it.  She listened to the different tunes her finger “tap” selected and wondered how it was all done with a _finger_ instead of a wand…  
          That evening Smythe wondered if Ivy wanted to watch a movie.  
          “Sure,” replied Ivy. She wasn’t sure what he meant by “movie” but she was already bored with different musical sounds and ready for something different.  
          “What do you want to watch?” Smythe asked while reaching for the iPod.  
          Ivy shrugged.  “You choose,” she finally answered.  It was a safe answer, one she hoped would keep her from doing or saying anything that would betray she had no idea what he was talking about.  
          Smithe frowned in concentration.  “Nothing you’ve seen before,” he decided aloud, “I know!  A true classic!”  He tapped the screen of the iPod several times and then turned it to Ivy.  “A Hard Day’s Night!” he announced.  
          “That doesn’t make sense,” declared Ivy aloud.  “How can it be both “day” and “night?”  
          “It’s the name of a song!” Smythe told her.  “A _Beatle_ song.”  
          “You _watch_ songs?” Ivy asked in confusion.  She hadn’t watched the other songs…  
          “Of course not!  It’s also the name of a movie!  One that features that song…”  
          “O.K.,” answered Ivy dubiously.  
          Smythe handed the iPod back to Ivy but then suddenly withdrew it. “This screen is really too small,” he told her.  “I know! I can use my old iPad!  Wait here!” he told Ivy.  Ivy waited—what else could she do?  Smythe returned a few minutes later carrying a larger thin rectangular board maybe 25 centimeters at its longest.  He punched the shiny side several times with his finger, waited, and then handed the board to Ivy.  “Use this!” he told her.  
           Ivy took the board; it was incredibly light and thin. She stared blankly at the red words: _The Beatles_ , written on it followed by black words: _It’s a Hard Day’s Night!_ written along with the top of four heads…   
           “Go on,” encouraged Smythe.  “Start it!”  Noting her inactivity, he added, “Press here,” and he moved Ivy’s finger to a small triangle in a circle.  Ivy pressed and a strange discordant chord sounded.  Then she saw these people running with music and words sounding at the same time. “They’re moving!” exclaimed Ivy in surprise.   
          “Of course,” agreed Smythe smiling.  
          “I mean, they _move!”_ Ivy repeated.  “I thought you could only do _stills!”_  
          “Stills?” questioned Smythe with a puzzled expression on his face.  “Oh, you mean photos?”  
          Ivy nodded.  
          “Course we can do photos!” Smythe assured Ivy.  “See?”  he reached over and took the iPod from Ivy.  He turned the iPod so she could see it’s gray back.  “Smile!” he told her.  Ivy dutifully smiled though she wasn’t sure why.  
          “See?” said Smythe and he flipped the iPod around.  There on the smooth surface was the image of Ivy smiling!!!   
          “How’d you do that so fast!” asked Ivy amazed.  “And in colour!”  Even Rita’s photos came out in black and white and you had to wait until the _Prophet_ came out before you could see the results!  
          “Magic!” Smythe answered with a smile.  
          “No, not magic!” corrected Ivy.  “Seriously, how’d you do it?”  
          “Um, that’s just what an iPad can do,” answered Smythe in a more serious voice.  “I really don’t understand the mechanics of it…  So, ready for the Beatles?”  
          “Can it do, uh, _movies_ in colour too?” asked Ivy instead.  
          “Course!”  
          “Then I’d like to see one of those…”  
          Smythe frowned in thought.  “O.K.,” he agreed.  “Uh, how about the _Lion King?”_ he asked. “That’s in colour…”  
          Lion King?  What on earth?  Oh!  It must be about Richard the Lion-Hearted, Richard I—the Muggle king who ruled England ten years and spent maybe six months of it actually _in_ England.  Not bad management:  all the honour, praise and acclaim but none of the boring administrative responsibility. “Sure,” agreed Ivy and settled back in her bed preparing to watch something about Muggle royalty...  
          The _Lion King_ had nothing to do with Richard I.  It was actually about, _lions_ of all things!  Talking jungle animals!  Who’d have thought! Ivy had no idea Muggles had such imaginations!  Coloured drawings that moved!  Fascinating!  Of course, Scar should have taken the time to build a larger base before making his move on the pride…  Or after.  Either way, he had no real support for his rule besides the hyenas which made it ridiculously easy for Simba to retake the throne…  
          Ivy spent the night watching movies.  
          The next day the doctor said Ivy could do some light walking which meant she could use the loo without help!  And then Smythe led Ivy to the Recreation Room!  Inside was something called a Flat Screen Television!  It was huge! Smythe handed Ivy a small slim black rectangle piece with tiny buttons on it which he called the “remote,” and showed her how to use it.  The “remote” was sort of a limited wand—working only in one direction on one item, the flat screen Television.  Besides movies and music, Ivy discovered _games!_     
          Ivy decided she didn’t want to “escape,” at least, not yet. Muggles were barbarians, but it was rather nice lying on the sofa playing games and having a Muggle tend to her every need much like a house elf would.  Her family didn’t have a house elf; Muggles would do.

*****


	6. Olivia

          “I won’t!” exclaimed Olivia O’Shea defiantly.  “You can’t make me and I won’t!”  
          “You will!” growled her father.  “You cost me a lot of galleons to clean up that mess you created at Hogwarts and you _owe_ me!”  
          “Take it out of my allowance!” replied Olivia airily.   
          “Which has been suspended until further notice!” retorted her father angrily.  Olivia ignored his words.  Father said that all the time when he was mad, but it had never happened.  
          “Cousin Hank isn’t  _that_ bad,” said Olivia’s mum conciliatorily.  Cousin Hank needed help starting some sort of “guy” ranch. “Dude” was the word mum used. Father had volunteered Olivia.  
          “Cousin Hank is a provincial colonial bore!” replied Olivia disdainfully.  Olivia had never actually met Cousin Hank, but mum had told her that often enough. “I have no intention going to the Americas to help him _hit_ cows!” she told her parents in no uncertain terms.  
          “I believe he called it “punching,” corrected mum mildly.  
          “Same difference,” said Olivia dismissively.  “I’m still not going!”  She waved her wand and Apparated out of their home.

*****

          When Olivia O’Shea got angry with her parents, she usually went over to one of her friend’s house, either Marilla Avery, Glenna MacAra or Alanna Warrington.  But last time she was with them, Alanna had shown off the complete new wardrobe she had recently gotten. Glenna had spoken about nothing but her recent trip to Italy and Marilla was busily discussing her plans to go to France…. All of which were financed or would be financed as a result of the “H2 settlement.”  That’s what the payment her family had made to keep her (Olivia) out of Azkaban was called.  It wasn’t fair!  They had the money and Olivia had nothing!  Worse, they refused to _share_ their windfall!  Positively selfish!  They wouldn’t have had any of it if it hadn’t been for Olivia!  They were friends no more.   
          So Olivia decided to go shopping instead.  Usually she would have gone to Richards’ place—but Olivia was boycotting it.  Anthony Richards was the blame for all her problems!  If he only hadn’t given her prefect position to Basu! Then everything would be fine.  
          Olivia wandered into Madam Malkin’s.  The place wasn’t too bad if one ignored the “riff raff.” She found several new outfits that looked exceptionally good on her.  They would be wasted worn in the wastelands of the Americas; even father would agree… “This one and this one and this one,” Olivia decided aloud.  “Wrap them up and I’ll take them with me.”  
          “I’m terribly sorry, Miss,” said Madam Malkin.  “But I need 28 galleons first.”  
          “What?  Of course not!  I’m Olivia O’Shea!” she told her.  “We’ve an account here!  I know it’s been a while since I last shopped here,” Olivia admitted, “but our money’s still good!”  
          “Yes, Miss, the O’Sheas do have an account here,” agreed Madam Malkin.  “But I’ve been informed by Mr. O’Shea that you may no longer make charges on the family account.”  
          “Father did what?” exclaimed Olivia in outrage.  “That’s impossible!  You lie!” she accused.   
          “No doubt it is some minor misunderstanding,” said Madam Malkin firmly, “but it is one that needs to be cleared up between you and your father and until it is, you need to make your payments in cash…”  
          Olivia stormed out of the shop in anger vowing to never return!  The proprietors of the next two shops told Olivia the same thing. This was impossible!  How _dare_ father do this to her!  Olivia drew her wand and Apparated home.  
          But it didn’t work that way!  Olivia found herself just outside the front door!  That wasn’t right!  She waved her wand again to go inside!  She felt the familiar pressing and squeezing of Apparating, but when it ended, Olivia discovered she was _still_ outside the front door!  What was going on?  She waved her wand and Apparated again, and again… Then Olivia used her wand to knock on the front door.  She rapped loudly; the sound boomed thunderously, but the door didn’t open. Finally, Olivia put her wand away and started banging repeatedly on the front door.   
          “You’ve been locked out!” came a familiar sounding voice.   
          Olivia turned at the sound.  She saw someone in wizard robes come out of the darkness—standard disillusionment charm.  Olivia recognized the person as Paige Crowley.  
          “What do you mean “Locked out?” questioned Olivia.  She’d never heard of such a thing before.  
          “Locked out,” Crowley repeated.  “Your house is unplottable,” she reminded Olivia.  “You are not the secret keeper and no longer have family access or visiting privileges..  
          “What!  They can’t do that to me!”  
          “You are 17 and an adult,” Crowley told Olivia. “They can and they have.”   
          Olivia stared blankly at the front door as she tried to digest what Crowley had said.  What did it mean?  What now? What was she supposed to do? Where would she go?  “Why are you here?” she asked abruptly..  
          Crowley did not answer.  She just looked at Olivia with her piercing black eyes.  That was no surprise.  Crowley had never talked much while at Hogwarts either.  In fact, she had probably talked more to Olivia now than she ever had while at Hogwarts..  
          “Did father put you up to this?” accused Olivia suddenly. “Lock me out and then send you to take me off to Cousin Hank’s?”  
          Crowley’s eyes seem to harden.  “I am _no_ lackey,” she said coldly.  
          “No? How else would you have known to wait for me here if he hadn’t told you?”  
          Crowley took several steps forward until they were face to face.  “Your father contacted all the proprietors and told them he would not cover any charges you might make,” she told Olivia.  “It was easy to guess he was locking you out.”  
          “And you just _happened_ to be here when I tried to come home?  You don’t know where I live!”   
          “I need a person to run Tom’s store,” Crowley stated instead.  
          “What about Richards?”  
          “Tom is in the Americas scouting prospects.  Anthony is in Europe,” replied Crowley.   
          “Spending his “settlement,” no doubt,” observed Olivia bitterly.   
          “Actually, it’s Hogwarts business with an expense account,” informed Crowley.  “I don’t know when he’ll return.  I need someone now.”  
          “Why me?”  
          “You’re available.”  
          Was she? It seemed strange to hear her situation described in such terms.  
          “There’s space in back where you could put up a cot,” Crowley continued.  
          “Like I would _ever_ sleep in a store?” questioned Olivia disdainfully.  
          “There’ll be space at the Avery’s while she’s in France…”  
          Olivia shuttered.  “You know?”  
          “I know they’re spending and you’re not,” replied Crowley calmly.  “The rest is unimportant.”  
          “What is important?”  
          “That you’re responsible, reliable and deal honestly with me.”  
          Olivia studied Crowley thoughtfully.  Tom’s business was successful.  Crowley was, well, lucky—still in business after twice avoiding Ministry prosecution.  Perhaps some of that “luck” could rub off on Olivia… At the very least, perhaps Olivia could learn how Crowley had done it.  “Run the shop,” mused Olivia aloud.  “That’s like a Manager, isn’t it?”  
          “Yes.”  
          Hmm, that meant she’d be in charge of the store clerk, DeWitt. He was only two years older, unmarried and a bit of a hunk even if he _was_ Hufflepuff.  This could work…  “What kind of salary?” Olivia asked.  
          “Room and board.”  
          “I don’t work for nothing!” Olivia stated, scandalized it would even be suggested.  
          “Room and board is  _not_ “nothing,” Crowley told Olivia firmly. “Try staying at the Leaky Cauldron for free.  You’ve never worked at all,” Crowley reminded.  “I’m taking you on because you are Slytherin and have potential.  We can discuss an additional salary _after_ you prove your worth.”  Crowley held out her hand.   
          “What’s that for? asked Olivia regarding the hand suspiciously.  
          “A lift,” replied Crowley, “to the room in back of our store. It’s small and clean; you can stay there for the night and start work tomorrow.  I’ve some food, too, if you’re hungry.”  
          “No strings?”  
          “There’s a contract, and some confidentially papers to be signed after which I expect you to run Tom’s store.  If you won’t do that, you can go elsewhere.   
          That didn’t seem too difficult.  “What kind of food,” asked Olivia suspiciously.  
          “Hot chocolate and shepherd’s pie.”   
          Olivia liked hot chocolate and shepherd’s pie and she _was_ feeling rather hungry.  It wasn’t as if she promised anything; one night couldn’t hurt and afterwards, well, she could decide that later…  Olivia reached out her hand and took hold of Crowley’s wrist.

 *****


	7. Conner/Ivy

          “Conner! There’s an owl outside…” Conner Fitzpatrick looked up from his Manga, a rather engaging vampire story, and out the window.  Sure enough, there was an owl fluttering about.   
_“How did they do it?”_ he thought with frustration as he got up and went to the window.  The family had moved three times since he had started attending Hogwarts, and _still_ the owls found him!   
          Conner had insisted his family move after that wizard assault which nearly ended his life (Sir.)  He’d never told anyone where the family had moved, but two years later the wizards notified the family _in person_ that he was missing (H2.)  When Conner returned from H2 and found out about the visit, he insisted they move again—again leaving no forwarding address, but they found them for that Hogwarts return meeting!  At least it was through proper post instead of owls or wizards.  Conner hadn’t wanted his parents to go but they insisted on hearing what the officials had to say, insisted on meeting Mr. Potter.   
          Conner made the family move yet again after that. They hadn’t wanted to, but Conner couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t take the Express, without knowing his family was safe from wizard intrusion.  Once moved, Conner had put up all sorts of protective wards. Corner had taught all the 6thand 7thyear students Warding, Ward Detection and Ward Removal while at H2 and _still_ an owl found him!  
          Conner removed a rather thick envelope from the owl. It fluttered up and then landed on the roof of their home indicating a return reply was expected.  
          He opened the envelope.  A small lime green card fluttered to the ground.  Conner picked it up.  It appeared to be Limo calling card (Sidewinder Express) entitling him to one free round-trip ride to and from the Ministry.  Conner pulled out a thick folded piece of parchment.  “You are cordially invited to meet with Wizard Dean Thomas, Head of Magical Law Enforcement…” A date and location followed. Nothing within the invitation indicated a purpose for the meeting.  Conner found another rectangular card within the envelope. It was cream coloured, embossed with gold, and covered with thin spidery calligraphy writing. Conner read the words with difficulty; it appeared to be a ticket for a tour of Ministry set for the same date as the meeting with Thomas, but two hours earlier.  There was also a light pink coupon entitling the bearer to “one free meal” at the Ministry Café titled:  Kwik Coffee Café. A final piece of parchment contained specific directions on how to get into the Ministry (using some sort of phone booth, something Conner had seen only in old style movies.  
          Conner stared at the papers thoughtfully.  While he had no real interest in meeting with Wizard Thomas, (he’d already met him once while at Hogsmeade and was singularly unimpressed,) he’d never been in a limo before nor had he ever visited the Ministry. Collectively, along with a free meal, they were reason enough to accept the invitation. Accordingly, Conner sent an RSVP by return owl.

*****

          Gregory Smythe studied the slender girl playing the video game.  Who was she? Not Roxy! Of that he was certain, but who?  
          Ever since Greg had brought “Roxy” to their home his father worried that what happened to her and her very presence would somehow get out and create a scandal staining his Knighthood.  Greg wanted to tell him to not worry, but he couldn’t, not until he knew more.  
          Roxy’s pale skin, aquiline features and haughty manner suggested money, old money, making her an aristocratic brat—except…  Greg didn’t recognize her.  Not that he knew every child in every aristocratic family, but Greg had been watching the news and scanning the internet and no one fitting Roxy’s description had been mentioned as missing.  Greg had even asked the _help_ for help.  Ever since that incident with Montague the previous year, Greg had taken a more personal interest in his father’s employees, learning their names, families, interests, goals…  Greg had taken that photo he’d made of Roxy and asked them to pass it around to see if anyone knew her…  They had and no one recognizing Roxy.  
          Roxy’s lack of internet knowledge was puzzling as well! How could she not know how to use a phone or a remote?  How could one _live_ without the internet these days?  Yet Roxy seemed to. Greg had watched her closely; despite access to a cell phone and internet search engines where she could log onto facebook and other social media accounts, Roxy had never once attempted to contact anyone.  Was that because she was a runaway and she feared being “found” that much?  Or was there some other reason?

*****


	8. Olivia/Ivy

          That first night in Crowley’ storeroom had been sleepless with Olivia O’Shea trying to think things through and decide what to do.  By the time Crowley had shown her the contract the next day Olivia had realized that, though she had some money of her own, it was in her parents’ vault and she didn’t have the key.  She wouldn’t beg her father for forgiveness; to do so, would most likely require she agree to take the trip to the America to help this Cousin Hank, nor could she bear the sniggers and derisive stares of her “friends” should she go to them for help.  Olivia read through the contract Crowley provided.  It seemed horribly long with lots of unnecessary bits and pieces but Olivia had never seen an employment contract before. The part she understood most, the job description—opening and locking up at specified times, supervising all sales, greeting customers, assisting customers, taking inventory, cleaning the store…   all looked like basic management responsibilities.  Infractions were deducted from the salary, except she hadn’t any salary so that was no big deal either.  Olivia signed the paper readily certain she could handle some simple supervision.   
          The confidentiality papers took longer to read and consider—why bother with secrecy?  Not contradict the owners?  What did that mean?  What did a simple shop have to hide—a price or two?  A supply source?  Everyone knew the Green and Gold was more pricy than the other shops—what could Crowley be worrying about? In the end, Olivia signed them too; why worry about keeping secrets when there was nothing to keep?  
          After that, DeWitt (still a rather handsome hunk) gave Olivia a tour of the shop and the basics of how things worked. Prices were preset. They magically appeared on the receipt when Olivia wrote the item name and quantity on the spelled paper. Totals automatically appeared on the paper which Olivia read back to the customer for approval and signature on Gringotts’ banking paper (or cash payment.)  Then DeWitt demonstrated how to open the shop (by opening it) and how to treat the customers (totally servile) using the first few as examples. Then DeWitt suggested Olivia try…  
          “I’m not doing that!” Olivia protested.  “It’s demeaning!”  
          “It’s what the customers expect and makes the sales. It’s part of your job.”  
          “You do it!” she told DeWitt.  _“I’m_ the manager!”  
          “Not of me,” he told her.  “I have another shop to operate.”  
          “What?”  
          “If Mrs. Crowley had me to operate the Green and Gold, she wouldn’t need you,” DeWitt told Olivia bluntly.  
          “But I’m the manager!  _I supervise!”_  
          “You _supervise_ yourself!  I recommend you give it an honest try,” he added.  
          “Yeah, what’s she gonna do if I don’t—fire me?  Oh, wait, she signed a contract! She’s got me for a month whether she likes it or not!”  
          “She’ll deduct lost sales from your salary.”  
          “I don’t have a salary!”  
          “Your salary is “room and board,” corrected DeWitt.  “You deliberately mess up and it won’t be hot chocolate and Shephard’s pie for dinner, but bread and water!”  
          “She wouldn’t!” sputtered Olivia.  “She couldn’t!”  
          “She’s got Pilkington as her solicitor,” reminded DeWitt. “You can bet that contract you signed is solid with no loopholes.  And before you think about breaking it, you should know that your father has put out a reward of his own, a big one—to anyone who can successfully transport you to your cousin Hank in the Americas.”  Olivia stared at DeWitt in shock and disbelief.  That her father would do anything like that!  “You’re safe enough as long as you work for Mrs. Crowley,” DeWitt continued, “but if you break your contract, Mrs. Crowley will be first in line to claim the reward…” Olivia gulped.  
           “It isn’t that hard to do,” DeWitt added in a softer voice.  “Just smile and say whatever you’d expect me to say if I were in your place and keep your actual thoughts to yourself.”  
          “You couldn’t pay me enough to kowtow before others!” Olivia exclaimed disdainfully.  
          “That’s probably a good thing,” replied DeWitt.  “I understand your father plans to garnish any wages you get to pay for some big expense he thinks you’re responsible for… Fortunately, room and board is beneath him.  Whatever did you do to make him so mad?”  
          “Never mind!” snapped Olivia mindful of all the restrictions in place to keep the settlement secret.  Things would go worse for her if she opened her mouth about that.  
          The front door opened.  A Slytherin lady with two small children stepped in, nobody Olivia knew. Tourists, probably.  
          “You’re on a stage,” whispered DeWitt, “the lead actress; a princess fallen upon hard times, desperate to make a sale— _sell_ it!” he urged and gave Olivia a nudge forward…

*****

          “A stellar performance,” murmured DeWitt approvingly after the customers had left.  
          “I think I’m gonna be sick!” muttered Olivia.  The lady couldn’t make up her mind.  There was a stack of “tried on” outfits to put away and having to smile at those two dirty brats while they tugged and wiped their grubby hands on her _only_ outfit was beyond—.  Of course her expensive self-cleaning clothes hadn’t stayed dirty for long but still…  
          “It gets easier,” DeWitt assured her.   
          “Not if it’s somebody I know!” Olivia declared and cringed mentally at the thought.  
          “Just tell them you’ve decided do see how the other half lives before settling down or that you didn’t want to be a dosser or a kipper…”  
          “Kipper?”  Olivia knew a dosser was slang for a lazy person but a kipper?  
          “Yeah, it’s a muggle word I picked up; it means Kids In Parents’ Pockets Eroding Retirement Savings.  It describes young people who should have moved out of their parent’s home and earn a living of their own but refuse to give up the easy lifestyle.”  
          “I’ve got to go now,” DeWitt told Olivia, “and you need to get everything cleaned up and ready before the next customer comes in—it’s in your contract.”  Without another word DeWitt vanished behind some door connected to the shop.  
          Olivia sighed and raised her wand.  She knew several cleaning spells from H2.  It wasn’t as if anyone was watching nor had she anything else to do… “Kipper,” Olivia mused to herself as a set of clothes rose, slid onto a hanger and flew back to its place.  Perhaps she could turn this disaster into a fad—and could convince her “friends” they were behind the times…

*****

          “I need some clothes!” Ivy told Smythe imperiously. That was right after the doctor told Ivy she could use a walker and walk about a bit.  That first day Ivy walked to the Rec Room, she had been more interested in her surroundings than her attire.  But later, Ivy had been acutely aware of her clothing especially upon her return to her room.  She had no intention of continuing to walk around clad in a _nightgown!_   No doubt on _loan_ from some Muggle _maid_ …  Ivy intended to hold her ground and demand _new_ clothes not something donated by and/or used by the staff.  She expected a private seamstress and fitter, so was surprised when Smythe pulled out the same thing that showed movies—a computer, he called it.  He opened it and then tapped its smooth surface a bit.  Then he proceeded to show Ivy an array of clothing stills and told her to select something…   The variety was mind-boggling!  Unfortunately, Ivy had no idea of her “size.”  Her clothes back home always stretched or shrank to fit perfectly.  So Smythe told Walsh to help Ivy get three complete outfits (shoes included and proper sleeping clothes!)  Walsh found a tape measurer and took some measurements to determine “size.”  After Ivy had made her selections, Walsh handed the “computer” back to Smythe.   
          Everything arrived that night!  (Something called “same day shipping.”)  Not everything fit properly (those were “returned.”)  But enough did so Ivy could walk around the mansion and grounds properly attired.     
          Ivy enjoyed her extended freedom immensely.  She spent most of her time in the Recreation Room playing games and watching movies.  Nurse Walsh brought food and snacks when Ivy got hungry and propped up pillows when needed. On the few times Ivy tired of the Rec Room, Nurse Walsh accompanied her as she explored the mansion and grounds. Ivy took care to note and memorize the location of all possible exits for future reference.  In the meantime, the paintings on the wall were nice enough, but none of them moved, nor did the full suit of armor that decorated the end of one hall.  The lawns and the garden were attractive and neatly trimmed, but sterile.  No gnomes or bowtruckles hid in the background; the snap dragons didn’t snap and the creepers didn’t “creep.”  On the other hand, it was nice having someone constantly by her side waiting on her hand and foot...  
         Of all the Muggles Ivy had met, she liked Smythe’s father, _Sir_ Smythe the least.  Ivy had met him briefly once and after that he had kept his distance.  But Ivy had often seen him in the background staring at her with this grim worried expression.  She had asked the younger Smythe, Gregory, about that.  He said his father was concerned about Ivy’s parents; they were probably worried and looking for her…  Didn’t Ivy want to contact her parents?  Ivy wasn’t sure that was the source of the father’s concern.  Fragments of a half-heard conversation drifted through her head when she heard Sir Smythe’s voice.    
          And as for contacting her parents, sure, they were probably concerned, but in all honesty, Ivy had no idea how to contact them. Well, maybe she could come up with some excuse to get Smythe to drive her around London until she spotted the street outside Diagon Alley…  How hard could that be?  But did she want to go? Besides, there were probably all sorts of anti Muggle wards outside keeping Muggles from finding the right location… 

*****


	9. Oliva/Ivy

          Olivia O’Shea sat behind the counter of the Green and Gold shop, (Fine items for the discerning taste,) Tom Richards’ store.  She was, frankly, bored.  There was a lot of down time in an exclusive shop.  DeWitt suggested Olivia use her spare time to brush up or learn some new spells, but that was a Hogwarts thing and Olivia was done with that.  Besides, who was DeWitt to suggest studying when he had that stack of girlie magazines in the corner of his shop?   
          The front door opened.  A portly middle-aged wizard walked in.  Olivia stepped away from the counter and walked up to him.  “May I help you?” she asked in a polite voice.  
          “I understand you sell only the best here,” said the wizard pompously.  
          “That’s right,” agreed Olivia.  “Have you something in mind or would you like to browse?”  
          “I think I’ll browse,” he told her.   
          “As you wish.”  Olivia took three steps back as DeWitt had taught her, available should the customer need her, but not hovering.  
          “What are the prices?” he asked suddenly.  
          “If you need to ask, you can’t afford this shop,” Olivia told him primly.  
          “Humour me,” he told Olivia.  
          Olivia rolled her eyes and then raised her wand.  “Which item were you interested in?” she questioned. The wizard pointed out a very nice vest. Olivia whispered a spell and the price appeared above it with green cloud lettering.  The wizard then wandered about the shop pointing out item after item requesting the price.  Eventually, the wizard selected several items which he handed to Olivia to hold for him. When he had finished, Olivia took the items to the counter and wrote them up.  “That’ll be 36 galleons, 14 knutes and 5 sickles,” she told him. “Will that be cash or charge?”  
          “Uh, cash,” he said with a frown as he pulled out his money bag.  He started counting out the galleons and then stopped.  “You’re wrong!” he told her.  “That amount isn’t right at all!”  
          “Of course it is,” argued Olivia.  “See?”  She shoved the receipt under his nose.  
          “I do see!” he replied.  “You’ve written down the wrong numbers!  Are you trying to _cheat_ me?” he suddenly accused.   
          “Of course not!” Olivia denied as she looked at the receipt. He was right, the amounts didn’t match those that had shown above the item, but she didn’t understand why.   
          “Is there a problem?” came the smooth voice of Mrs. Crowley.  Somehow, she had materialized behind Olivia.   
          “Yes!” exclaimed the wizard.  “Your clerk tried is trying to cheat me!”  
          “There must be some mistake,” said Crowley apologetically. “May I see the receipt?”  Olivia gave the receipt to Crowley.  “Ah, yes,” she said as she looked it over.  “My apologies.  The amounts are indeed incorrect.  Totally unacceptable!  Miss O’Shea, you are fired!”  
          “What?” squeaked Olivia.  She hadn’t done anything wrong—only written the items on the receipt, not the prices!  
          “Not another word from you!” Crowley ordered.  “Pack up your things and leave!  Now!” she added when Olivia hadn’t moved.  Olivia backed away from the counter.  She stood uncertainly behind Crowley and watched.  
          “Miss O’Shea has only been working for us a few days,” Crowley added apologetically. “Good help is sooo hard to find.  We shall have to keep looking.”  Crowley tore off the receipt, pulled out a green ostrich quill, and rewrote the items.  “Does that look more correct?” she asked the wizard.   
          “Yes,” said the man after studying the paper.  
          “Come along,” whispered the voice of DeWitt in Olivia’s ear. She felt his hands on her shoulders and he pulled her back even further.  “Get out of sight!”  
          “But actually, that amount is incorrect too.” Olivia heard Crowley say as DeWitt pull her even further back through an open doorway. Olivia saw Crowley tap the paper with her quill.  “A 10% discount for your alert observation and diligence to accuracy,” Crowley told the wizard.  The wizard smiled and puffed up proudly as DeWitt pulled Olivia back and closed the door. They were in a tiny room, DeWitt’s shop.  
          “I’ve been fired!” whispered Olivia in disbelief.   “I didn’t do anything wrong but I’ve been fired!”  
          “Do you want your job?” asked DeWitt.  
          “Huh?”  
          “I said, do you want your job?”  Olivia stared at DeWitt blankly.  “Read your contract!” he ordered her.  “It says both Crowley and Richards must agree before firing you doesn’t it?”  
          “Uh…” Did it?  
          “That contract is binding on her as well.  Wait until the customer leaves and then go back and insist Crowley keep the contract!”  
          “Richards is in the Americas,” Olivia said repeating what she had heard about Richards.   
          “That’s right,” agreed DeWitt.  “And there’s no way she can fire you without him.  Go back and get your job!”  
          “Uh…” Olivia gulped.  Was insisting only delaying the inevitable?  
          DeWitt opened the door a bit and peeked through the crack. “He’s gone,” DeWitt announced. “Now is the time. Go!”  He pushed Olivia through the door and towards Crowley.

*****

          Olivia O’Shea stepped hesitantly towards Crowley.  She stopped about a meter away and straightened. “You can’t fire me!” she told Crowley firmly.  
          Crowley turned and looked directly at Olivia.   
          “Richards isn’t here,” stated Olivia.  “You can’t fire me without Richards agreeing.” Olivia hoped DeWitt was right.  Olivia hadn’t read the contract all that closely and certainly didn’t remember its terms.  
          “That’s true,” agreed Crowley.  “Take these things to the Leaky Cauldron and have them delivered to room 7, Wizard Rosier,” she added indicating the bag of recently purchased items.  
          Olivia stared at the things on the counter.  It was too easy.  Crowley surely had known she couldn’t fire Olivia without Richard’s help. Why had she?  “Why’d you do it?” Olivia asked aloud.  “Fire me, if you knew you couldn’t?”  
          “It’s what the customer expected,” replied Crowley calmly.   
          “Oh,” answered Olivia uncertainly.  “Why’d you fire me in the first place? I didn’t do anything wrong—I didn’t write the prices.”  
          “Which is why it was only a _temporary_ dismissal.”  
          “So, what happened?  Why was there a discrepancy?”   
          Crowley sighed.  “There is a 2% _Stupidity_ mark-up on all prices in the Green and Gold,” she told Olivia.   
          “A what?”  
          “A Stupidity mark-up—for those too _stupid_ to notice they have been over-charged.  When a customer does notice, the charge is removed. The customer receives a box of chocolates as an apology, a 10% discount and a 10% discount shop coupon to insure their return.”  
          “Why didn’t you tell me before?”  
          “Why didn’t you notice?”   
          “Uh...” Olivia felt her face warm.  She hadn’t been paying attention to such things.  
          “Make up any explanation you wish should a future customer notice the price discrepancy,” instructed Crowley, “as long as it does not disparage the Green and Gold or its owners.  DeWitt can show you how to change the totals, where the chocolates are and how to make the discount coupons.  You’d best hurry with that,” she added indicating the items on the counter. “Wizard Rosier wants it before 2:00.”  
          “What do I say to him if he sees me?” questioned Olivia as she reached for the bag.  
          “Tell him to ask me; you are not permitted to discuss business matters with clients.  You aren’t, you know.  Paragraph 7 of your contract expressly forbids you from speaking of business matters to any but Green and Gold employers and employees, reinforced by the Confidentiality Agreement you signed.”  
          “Oh.”  Olivia took the bag off the counter.  “What will you say if he asks?”  
          “That you apologized profusely, begged for your job back and promised to be more accurate from now on.  As you were still terribly new, I decided to give you a second chance…”  
          Olivia stared at Crowley.  “But I didn’t do that.”  
          “No.  But you will not contradict what I say about your “re-employment” to anyone.  That’s Green and Gold business too—covered by both Paragraphs 7 and 8 of your contract, also reinforced by your Confidentiality Agreement.”  
          “Oh.”  Olivia started towards the door.  
          “Miss O’Shea.”  Olivia stopped.  She turned to look at Crowley.  
          “I take your silence concerning Green and Gold business, including pricing and employment practices very seriously, which is why I insisted on the Confidentiality Agreement too,” Crowley told her. “If you cannot keep to that I shall bring Tom over immediately and we shall dismiss you for real.”  
          “Yes.”  Olivia turned and left the shop.

*****

          Ivy Malfoy was able to quit taking the pain “pills” by the end of the next week.  She still hurt, but the pain was manageable and better than dealing with those awful tasting things.  Yes, Ivy was able to swallow them down without chewing, but she still couldn’t forget that first time and its lingering memory made her not want _pills_ at all.   
          The only thing that didn’t seem to be healing to the Doctor’s satisfaction was the slashes on Ivy’s neck and chest.  He feared they would leave an unseemly scar and require a lot of “plastic surgery” to repair.  Ivy wasn’t sure what that entailed but the word _surgery_ —cutting— was enough to reject his suggestions; she was sure once she got home, a proper _healer_ could repair it.     

*****


	10. Conner

          “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic!” greeted the lady dressed in Wizard robes wearing a red carnation corsage. “Is everyone here for the tour?” The small group of wizards, six children all under 10, five adults and one Conner Fitzpatrick—not yet legally “adult” but too old to consider himself a “child,” standing just outside the telephone booth elevator, all nodded. “Terrific!  My name is Vicky.  I’ll be your tour guide while you’re at the Ministry.” She unrolled a scroll in her hand and a red quill floated into reach.  “Have you your tour tickets?”   
          Everyone nodded again. The adults held out tickets for Vicky to take.  Conner pulled his tour ticket from his pocket. He handed it to Vicky. She looked at the ticket briefly and then placed a check mark on her scroll.  She did the same with the rest of the tickets handed to her.  
          “Thank you.  Is there anyone else?” Vicky asked when she had finished. She looked up and looked around the group.  Seeing no response, Vicky added, “Then let’s get started.  We have a lot to see.”  She rerolled her scroll and placed it and the tickets within the folds of her robe. “If you will please follow me?  We will be going through the wand check first so you need to get your wand out…”  
          Conner followed the lady and listened to her chatter about Ministry history as they walked.  He stared at all the witches and wizards appearing and disappearing out of what appeared to be fireplaces as he walked.  The group stopped at the wand inspection station. One by one the adults presented their wands.  When it was his turn, Conner dutifully handed his wand over to the inspector as requested. The Inspector never asked, so Conner didn’t show him the _second_ wand he had gotten off the street last winter before the return to Hogwarts (or H2.) Well, Sir had had two—more than two actually, and there was no way Conner was facing a possible trip back to H2 without a bit of advance preparation… There had been a lot of used wands to choose between that day; Conner had the impression he wasn’t the only student seeking a second wand.  Conner would have purchased a third wand but didn’t like the way the others felt.  Odd how some of the wands just didn’t feel right to hold….  
         Paper airplanes zoomed every which way while Vicky led the group through a maze of passages.  She pointed out each department they passed.  Conner took note of the location of the Magical Law Enforcement Department for later.  All along Vicky kept up a lively chatter of information.  Mostly it was about department heads and responsibilities of various departments, but she also included Ministry history, it’s creation and the repair history relating to the damage resulting from some huge conflict between Harry Potter and the Dark Lord.  Conner perked up about that; he actually knew Mr. Potter.  He wondered aloud what Mr. Potter was doing in the Ministry; wasn’t he supposed to be in school then?  
          Vicky stopped mid-step and blinked at Conner thoughtfully.  “You’re right,” she said with surprise.  “He _should_ have been in school then but he wasn’t, not if he was fighting the Dark Lord here.  I don’t know why Mr. Potter was at the Ministry either, or how he got in as it was after hours for that matter,” she confessed. “Nobody tells us that.  I don’t think Mr. Potter has ever said,” she mused thoughtfully.  “But it was that battle which convinced Ministry Officials that the Dark Lord had truly returned…” And she resumed her narrative.  
          The tour ended at the Kwick Coffee Café. Vicky thanked everyone for coming and then invited them to stop and “grab a bite to eat before going on their way.” She recommended the butterbeer ice cream, “only a sickle a scoop,” a suggestion that immediately caught the attention of the children. The group thanked Vicky for her time and then spread out seeking tables and chairs.   
          Left alone, Conner wandered around before sitting at an empty table in a corner.  Writing immediately appeared on the table, the menu.  An older looking elf with a curved pointy nose and flappy ears wearing a white dinner towel wrapped around his body came to Conner’s table. He was pushing a cart containing several covered dishes.  The grim-faced elf looked expectantly at Conner. “Uh, I’ll have a Muggleburger with everything,” Conner ordered knowing it was fairly safe to eat.  “And, um a house salad…” hoping it was a traditional lettuce leaf variety, “some pumpkin juice, and a dish of Butterbeer ice cream…” The Ministry was paying; Conner didn’t have to go cheap and it _had_ sounded good.  
          Without a word the elf held out his hand.  “Oh, uh,” Conner reached into his pocket and pulled out his Kwick Coffee Café coupon and handed it to the elf.  The elf looked at it briefly and placed it into a bag hanging from the cart.  Then he tapped the cover of one of the dishes on his cart.  He slid the dish off the cart and placed it in front of Conner and removed the lid.  A steaming hot hamburger appeared beneath complete with fries, sliced tomatoes and a pickle!  _“That was quick!”_ thought Conner approvingly. “Thank you,” he told the elf.   
          The elf merely grunted while he tapped another dish and placed it in front of Conner.  The lid came off revealing a house!  The frame was of strips of celery, the sides were made of lettuce; the shingled roof of carrot rounds.  A slice of beet made the door; round cucumber slices served as windows.  More lettuce dotted with sliced olives and mushrooms decorated the yard.  Conner placed his fingers on the edges of the roof and gently lifted—a squeal erupted from the house.  Conner quickly dropped the roof back onto the house.  “Do you mind?” came a tiny voice.  “I’m _dressing!”_  
          Conner pushed the plate away and looked up at the elf. “Uh, maybe the fruit salad instead…” he suggested.  The elf nodded.  He reached onto the cart again, tapped a different tray and then placed it in front of Conner.  Conner cautiously lifted the lid. He saw an empty bowl.  Next to it was a smaller bowl filled with what appeared to be tiny colourful beads.  Conner picked up the spoon provided and stirred cautiously.  They seemed solid and clinked musically but there were no holes; they weren’t beads.  One was thin and yellow; looking closely, Conner recognized it as a banana. Then he recognized what appeared to be a cluster of green grapes, another of red grapes, an orange, a lemon, a strawberry, an apple, a pineapple, a cherry, a watermelon and a cantaloupe.  Conner stared at the bowls with confusion.  What was he supposed to do with it?   
          Meanwhile, the elf tapped a forth dish and placed it on the table next to Conner.  Beneath the lid was a huge bowl of ice cream and a tall glass filled with an orange liquid, pumpkin juice.  “Thank you,” Conner told the elf.  It walked away pushing the cart in front of him.  
          Conner pushed the fruit salad bowls aside and slid the Hamburger in front of him.  He decided he didn’t need a salad; the hamburger and ice cream should be enough. Conner picked up the hamburger and began to eat…  It was thick, juicy, and perfectly cooked.   
          “Conner!” exclaimed a familiar voice.  Conner looked up and saw James Potter coming towards him.  “What are you doing here?”   
          “Uh, I just finished a tour…” Conner answered.  
          James slid into the empty chair across from Conner. James Potter was older than Conner and already out of Hogwarts.  But he was sort of like family after Conner had spent a holiday with the Potters. “The Ministry one?” James questioned genially.  “Was it any good?”  
          “Yeah, I suppose.  This place is bigger than it looks.”  
          “It is,” agreed James.  An elf pushing a cart stopped next to them.  “Butterbeer,” ordered James and he placed some coins in the elf’s hand.  The elf tapped a covered dish and set it in front of James.  He pulled off the lid and removed a frothy mug of butterbeer.  
          “What are you doing here?” asked Conner after he had finished another bite of the hamburger.   
          “Paperwork,” answered James succinctly.  “I’m waiting for the Records Office to open to fill out some papers.  _Two_ salads?” James questioned suddenly.  “You must be really hungry!”  
          “Yeah, well, the, uh, _salad_ was dressing…”  
          “It does that if you don’t knock,” answered James.  
          “Knock?”  
          In response, James picked up the fork provided and lightly tapped the beet door…. Abruptly the house collapsed and the pieces rearranged themselves on the plate into something resembling a typical salad glistening with some sort of salad dressing…. “Knock,” repeated James and he set the fork back down.  
          “Why don’t they tell you these things!” complained Conner.   
          “Where would the fun be in that?” questioned James. He leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, “It’s a real winner with the children and gets them to eat their vegetables!”  
          “I suppose that means there’s a trick to the, ah, _fruit_ salad too!”  
          “Course!  Pick the fruit you want and put them in the bowl,” instructed James.  Conner did as he was told selecting a banana, an apple, and a strawberry.   
          “Add a bee,” continued James.  
          “Bee?” Conner immediately started searching through the tiny fruit for something yellow and black resembling a bee.  There were three of them!  
          “Yeah, one for regular and more if you like your salad sweet—you know, honey!”   
          Conner put a “bee” into the bowl too.  
          “Ready?”  
          “Uh, I guess…”  
          “Now, tap the bowl three times with your spoon.”  
          Conner did.  The fruit spun and whirled in the bowl like a mini blizzard.  When the movement stopped the bowl was filled with sliced fruit.  Conner easily recognized sliced bananas, apples and strawberries.  
          “That’s pretty cool,” he commented as he took a taste. Seasoned perfectly!  
          “It’s very popular.”  
          Conner finished his hamburger and looked at the rest of the food surrounding him.  “Uh, I can’t eat all of this,” he admitted.  “You want some?”  
          “Sure,” agreed James.  He grabbed the house salad plate and slid it in front of him.  Then he reached into his pocket.  
          “No,” refused Conner suddenly realizing what James was doing.  “You don’t need to pay me.”  
          “Course I do,” argued James.  “This place is not cheap!”  
          “But I didn’t pay for any of it,” protested Conner. “It was, uh, on the Ministry, or something…” That last part came out as a mumble.  Conner wasn’t really sure who was paying for his meal.  And while James ate the salad, Conner told him about the invitation that came with the tour…  
          When he had finished, James leaned back in his chair.  “Well,” he began thoughtfully, “You aren’t in trouble or anything like that, or Uncle Dean would just send some aurors over to bring you in.”  
          “Uncle Dean?”  
          “Wizard Dean Thomas, Head of Magical Law Enforcement,” James explained, “I call him Uncle Dean.  He’s not really my uncle or anything but I’ve always called him that; he’s been to our house a lot for dinner, especially when I was younger.”  
         “Oh.”  It suddenly occurred to Conner that while the Potters were reported to be reclusive, that didn’t mean they didn’t know what was going on in the wizard community…  
          After that, the conversation turned to the latest news in James’ life.  James had a job working with dragons with his Uncle Charlie.  While Conner ate, James related the latest stories about his experiences. Conner had yet to see a real dragon but he’d read about them enough in his Manga that he could imagine what James was talking about.  Conner hoped to travel to Romania to see the dragons someday. Conner finished the last bites of his ice cream and looked at the antique clock hanging from the café wall. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to get to my meeting,” he told James and he rose from his chair.  
          James nodded.  “Me too,” he agreed.  “The Records Office should be open now,” he told Conner.  “They’re both in the same direction.  Shall we go together?”  
          “Sure.”  Conner welcomed the company.  He remembered the general location, but wasn’t positive he’d find the right place on his own…

*****

          Wizard Dean Thomas, head of Magical Law Enforcement stood and opened the door when he heard the knock.  Normally, he would have just said “enter” and the door would have opened on its own accord, but the person he was expecting was from a Muggle family and Dean suspected he was not as comfortable with magical displays. Conner Fitzpatrick stood on the other side of the door.  
          “Mr. Fitzpatrick!” greeted Dean.  “I’m so glad you could make it.  Won’t you come in?”  He stepped aside making space for Conner to enter.  “Have a seat,” he added indicating the chair near his desk. Conner sat down.   
          “How was the tour?” Dean asked conversationally as he walked over to his chair on the other side of the desk.  
          “Fine,” said Conner without elaboration.  
          “And the food?” Dean inquired as he sat down.   
          “Fine.”  Conner watched Dean without speaking, clearly waiting for whatever Dean would say next.   
          Social pleasantries would not work with Conner. Time to get down to business. Dean cleared his throat.  “I expect you’re wondering why I asked you to come here,” he began.   
          “Yes.”  
          “I’d like you to apply to be an auror,” Dean said bluntly.  
          “That’s an antiquated profession that exists in name only,” replied Conner promptly.  
          “I’d like to revitalize it.,” answered Dean not bothering to correct the public perception of aurors.  
          “Why?”  
          “To make it better.”  
          “Why me?”  
          “I should think that you, of all people, know how important it is to detect and capture Dark Wizards,” Dean replied. “That’s what aurors do,” he reminded.  
          “Like they captured Sir?” reminded Conner bitterly.  
          “All the more reason to become an auror,” responded Dean smoothly while ignoring the fact that Conner obviously knew more about Sir than what was reported in the _Profit_. “You can do it better,” Dean assured Conner.  “You’ll recognize the importance of student testimony concerning Dark Wizard activity….” he added acknowledging the indifference Conner received when he filed his complaint about Sir’s assault.  Recognizing it as Dark Wizard activity wouldn’t have done much at the time; Sir left no clues or evidence behind, but at least they could have helped Conner relocate his family and ward the area against future intrusion. “We made mistakes with you,” Dean admitted, “you can help correct them. You can make sure it doesn’t happen to someone else.”  
          “You done?”  
          Clearly Dean’s words had done nothing to interest Conner.  “No,” replied Dean.  “Submitting an application does not commit you to becoming an auror.  That comes later.  However, once your application is approved and you sign the Confidentiality paperwork, you are eligible to take the auror classes offered at Hogwarts. Those classes include in-depth studies on dark wizard activities, mistakes and successes on both sides, detecting and countering dark wizard spells, serious dueling…  As one who has had personal experience with a Dark Wizard, you might benefit greatly from the instruction in the auror classes. I should think that would interest you whether or not you decide to become an auror.”   
          Conner’s closed, detached expression changed to one of thoughtfulness.  “Confidentially paperwork?” he finally asked.  
          “Yes.  Auror students must agree to not discuss or in any way reveal anything or anyone from auror classes to others not part of the class.  That information is not for the rest of Hogwarts or the community.”   
          “Don’t you think you’re taking secrecy to the extremes?”  
          “No.  While you may choose to not become an auror, others in your classes may go on to become aurors.  Their identities need to be protected.  There are actual laws concerning the public release of auror names,” Dean continued. “Hogwarts is the only school for witches and wizards in Great Britain.  No doubt some future aspiring dark witch or wizard will attend Hogwarts. I do not want our classes detailing past Dark Wizard activities giving them ideas; I do not want them to have an edge in knowing what we know about detecting, and countering dark behavior.  
           You’d make the perfect auror,” continued Dean as persuasively as possible. “You’re brave, but not stupidly brave, able to think quickly on your feet, have moral integrity with the courage and strength to do what is both necessary and right.”   
          “And you think that’s me?”  
          “Yeah.”  
          “Why?”  
          “You rescued Mrs. Crowley a few years ago, saving her life despite public reaction to your behavior when you started using Muggle First Aide.” (Dean looked it up.)  
          “And because I called up the Sword of Gryffindor?” asked Conner sarcastically.  
          “That part worried me,” admitted Dean. “A lot.”  
          “Oh?” Conner looked surprised.  
          “Yes. It put you in the news.  We don’t encourage headline seekers to become aurors.  But you didn’t let the sword go to your head and instead kept a low profile; you didn’t do an interview with the  _Profit_ about it or your experiences at H2 though I am sure Rita tried.”  
          “And if I had?”  
          “You wouldn’t be sitting here today,” Dean told him honestly.  “People who seek the headlines are usually more interested in their public image and public approval than in keeping the community safe.  That kind of notoriety can get an auror killed!  It _has_ gotten them killed.”  Dean leaned forward.  “Aurors should be more interested in seeking out Dark Wizards not the publicity. Being an auror is where you can do the most good,” Dean added.  “We need people like _you_ to be our aurors.”  
          Conner looked thoughtful. Dean watched and waited. Had he said enough? Too little and he’d lose an excellent auror candidate; but too much could backfire…  
          “How did the owl find me?” Conner asked abruptly.  
          “Huh?”  Dean was totally disconcerted by the question.  
          “The owl,” repeated Conner.  “You sent an owl!  How did it find me?”  
          Then Dean remembered Conner’s efforts to secure his family all detailed in the file he had on Conner.  “Has anyone been bothering you?” Dean asked with concern.   
          “Yeah!” Conner agreed.  “I got this invitation!”  He held out the one Dean had sent to him.  “How did the owl find me?!”  
          Dean drew in a deep breath.  “My deepest apologies,” he began.  “I had no idea an owl would cause such distress.  When we realized that assault two years ago was more than a, uh, student prank, your case was turned over to the aurors.  That’s what they do, you see,” Dean explained.  “They don’t mess with the day-to-day infractions, they only hunt out the Dark stuff.  One of our aurors tried to contact you for follow-up, but you were, uh, uncooperative.”  
          “They treated me like an imbecile!” muttered Conner darkly.   
          “The law enforcement people, maybe,” conceded Dean, “but never the aurors!  Not that you had occasion to learn that.  In their defense, the original officials who worked your case had no idea you might have reason to know what you were talking about, or of your experiences during your third year with ah, Delores Umbridge… That was a Hogwarts matter, you see, and not shared with the Ministry Enforcement department…    
          But the aurors knew,” Dean continued.  “They got in touch with Professor Lovegood for background information.  And they didn’t quit just because you refused to see them.  They went back to your home to look for clues.  That’s when they discovered your family had moved…” Conner tensed visibly.   
          “It didn’t take much for the aurors to find them,” continued Dean. “They asked their questions and when they finished, I suggested one of the aurors return and put up some security wards; if you were worried about Sir’s return, perhaps you had good reason... No harm in helping.”  More or less; the extra security had been Harry’s idea… Dean paused and shifted the papers on his desk; Conner’s file.   
          “We would have left your family alone after that,” Dean continued, “but when you vanished in H2, I asked that same auror to inform them. We couldn’t leave your family hanging in the wind with something as serious as that,” he explained.  There had always been the chance Conner’s family knew something that could help—but that hadn’t happened.   
          “You moved your family again after you returned from H2. You never said anything, of course,” added Dean, “but that same auror noticed the wards had been disturbed and immediately investigated.  Once satisfied your family was safe and the move was made by choice the auror replaced the wards and left.  When I wrote out my invitation, I handed it to that same auror and asked the invitation be delivered to you.”   
          “Who?” Connor demanded.   
          “That’s classified,” Dean told him promptly.   
          “To me?” Conner asked in disbelief.  “That auror has been  _spying_ on me! On my _family_ and I demand to know who it is!”  
          “Three visits in two years does not constitute spying,” retorted Dean disdainfully.   
          “That you know of,” accused Conner.  “That  _I_ know of!”  
          “Three visits,” repeated Dean firmly.  “The aurors are beyond reproach!  Their word is good.  Direct your anger at me, if you must, but not them.  I never instructed the auror to remove the security features put in place after the matter with Sir concluded.  Which made that auror the  _only_ one able to inform your family when you vanished.  And there was a real fear that more than students would vanish during and after H2 so yes, the security features remained and were investigated when disturbed.”  Dean closed Conner’s file and looked directly at Conner.  “If you wish to move your family again,” he told Conner, “let me know first, me  _personally_ , and I’ll tell auror it’s by choice and to stay away…”   
          Dean could tell his words had little impression on Conner. But why would they given all the negative publicity aurors received?  “All the aurors have integrity and strong moral values,” Dean assured Conner. “They would never, ever abuse their abilities especially against someone who has already suffered at the hands of a Dark Wizard.”  
          Conner shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  Dean added, “While I will not compromise auror security by releasing their names, I will pass on your desire to learn the auror’s name to the auror in question.”  
          “What good would that do?”  
          “Aurors are not required to keep their own identities secret and can tell whomever they wish,” Dean told Conner. “The auror may provide me with a signed consent enabling me to reveal the name to you.  It’s the best I can do.”  Dean told him.  He closed Conner’s folder.  “Despite what you’ve heard, the aurors are the best of the best.  You could be one of them.  Think about it.”

*****


	11. Ivy/Olivia

          “You still don’t know who she really is?”  
          “No.  No one recognizes the photo and I’ve been watching the net for missing persons fitting her description…” came the answer.  
          Ivy Malfoy was standing quietly in the shadows listening to a conversation between Smythe and his father.  She was very good at being quiet and making herself unnoticed. She’d had a lot of practice at H2—if the kidnapper had come, Ivy wanted to make sure he went after the _other_ students first leaving her safely behind, unnoticed.   
          Getting away from her _watchdogs_ was more difficult.  Having a Muggle always on hand to answer her every wish was fine, until Ivy wanted them to leave her alone and they wouldn’t.  Walsh said it wasn’t _proper_ for a young lady to wander about the mansion un-chaperoned. Smythe had apparently agreed and assigned two maids, Bridget and Logan, to help Walsh in shifts so someone would always be with Ivy around the clock.  
          Ivy had gotten the night maid, Bridget, to accompany her to the loo and then quickly stepped outside using a chair to brace the door shut locking Bridget behind in bathroom…  
          “We need to find her family!” insisted the older Smythe. “She can’t stay here forever! People will notice and start asking questions…”  
          “I can always go to the authorities, ask them directly and see what they say,” suggested the younger Smythe.  
          “There you are!” whispered a voice.  Ivy turned and saw Bridget standing right behind her.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” the maid continued.  “If you wanted to take a walk, you should have said so…”  
          Ivy could hear nothing else with the maid talking; there was no point in remaining.  Ivy reluctantly allowed the maid to lead her away.   
          “I know it must be hard to have someone with you at all times but propriety _must_ be considered when you’re with the nobility,” the maid scolded.  
          Ivy had no idea what she meant.  “How did you get out so soon?” Ivy asked instead.  Ivy was sure she had braced the door better than that. Jamming doors shut/locking people within was another thing they had practiced at H2.  
          “Oh, I just texted me mum and asked her to let me out,” the maid told Ivy matter-of-factly.  
          “Texted?”  
          “Sure, see?” the maid pulled out something small, flat and rectangular.  Smythe had held out something similar to her when they first met.  Ivy had seen the maid hold, look down and tap on it often before.  After learning what “games” were and her experience with the “remote,” Ivy had figured the thing was a tiny game of some sort; she was too proud to ask directly not wanting to appear “stupid” in front of Muggles.  Instead of a series of numbers, Ivy saw words—“B there n a sec.” They were communication devices!   
          “How’d you do that?” Ivy asked unable to contain her interest.   
          “Easy!” replied the maid.  “See?”  She swiftly tapped, “found her,” and pressed one of the squares.   
          “Found who?” questioned Ivy though she suspected she already knew the answer.  
          “You, of course,” the maid answered promptly.  “That little stunt of yours could have gotten me in trouble if ‘is lordship found out,” she told Ivy seriously.  “Now mum can quit searching and get back to sleep.  She has to get up early to do the cooking, you know.”  
          Ivy didn’t know, nor did she particularly care.  She was more interested in the thing the maid held in her hand.  “You let her know just like that?” Ivy questioned curiously.  
          “Course!” the maid looked at Ivy. “Don’t you know how to use a phone?” she asked in disbelief.  
          “Um, no,” Ivy confessed.   
          “Well that explains a lot!” the maid exclaimed.  “I was wondering why you weren’t on your own phone!”  
          “Own phone?”  
          “ _Every_ one has one!” the maid hesitated and then added, “Everyone ‘cept you, I guess. Look!” And the maid proceeded to show Ivy some of the basic features of a phone…  
          “What if you don’t know the number,” Ivy asked hesitantly, “or you want to talk to someone not on your “list?”  
          “Then you can look that person up!” the maid assured Ivy.  
          “How?”  
          “Oh, I’d probably start with Facebook,” the maid said thoughtfully.  
          “Facebook?” Ivy remembered Smythe had mentioned something about “Facebook” that first meeting.  
          “You don’t know about Facebook?”  
          Ivy felt her face warm with embarrassment.  
          Without waiting for an answer the maid punched some more squares and started to hold it out towards Ivy but then abruptly stopped. “This isn’t against the rules is it?” she asked Ivy anxiously.   
          “Rules?”  
          “I mean you aren’t from some cult that shuns technology or something are you?”  
          “Technology?”  
          “I mean even the most _remote_ places have internet these days and I figure the only reason you don’t know what it is because you belong to some _backwards_ religion or cult that deliberately won’t _use_ it!”   
          Ivy bristled.  The maid was calling _her_ backwards!  How _dare_ she!  Ivy held her tongue with difficulty but hold it she did.  She’d learned how to do _that_ at H2 also.  Richards reminded the Slytherins over and over again to “keep your thoughts to yourself—they _outnumber_ you!”  And she was _outnumbered_ here as well—not by witches or wizards, but _Muggles_ and she hadn’t a wand…  
          “No,” Ivy answered carefully, “I don’t belong to some, uh, cult, but I, uh, don’t get out often…”  
          That seemed to satisfy the maid.  Consequently, she showed Ivy her Facebook page and began to talk all about Facebook…

*****

          Ivy didn’t sleep much after the maid tucked her in and turned out the light; she had too much to think about.  The speed at “phone” communication was mind-boggling!  Even magical!  No, _faster_ than magical!  No owl could move that fast!  All that time the maid had been tapping her phone; she hadn’t been playing games, she’d been talking to her friends!  Imagine if Ivy had her own phone! She could use it to talk to her friends during Binns’ class (and all the other boring classes) and he’d never know! Course, Ivy’s friends would have to have phones too, and there’d have to be “service…”  
          Why had no one ever said anything?  Well, perhaps they had.  Ivy remembered hearing several of the Mudblood students complain about “the service,” a sentiment Ivy heartily agreed with, but she was thinking of how the Hogwarts house elves never obeyed the students; now it occurred to her that perhaps the Mudbloods were talking of a different kind of “service…”  Something had to be done!  She was _superior_ to _any_ Mudblood; it was inconceivable the Mudbloods should excel at anything!  
          Eventually Ivy’s thoughts drifted to the fragment of conversation she’d heard between the Smythes.  Contact the authorities?  That didn’t sound good.  Ivy did not want to be involved with Muggle authorities at all.  But what could she do to prevent it?

*****

          “The numbers! They don’t match up!” Olivia O’Shea told DeWitt one day.  Olivia had spent the week watching the receipt totals.  It wasn’t easy, math was never her strong point but she had memorized the prices of some of the more popular items and had noticed that usually the number that appeared on the receipt was higher than the stated price, or the same as the stated price, but sometimes the number that appeared on the receipt was lower than the stated price.  
          “So,” said DeWitt without bothering to look up from his girlie magazine.   
          “So, I should know what it means!”  
          “Probably.”  
          “So, explain it!” she ordered.  
          “Not my job.”  DeWitt closed his magazine and stood.  “I’m going out!” he announced.  
          “So, what is it?” demanded Olivia.  But she spoke to an empty wall—DeWitt had already left.

*****


	12. Laurel

          “We’re still on for today?” asked Laurel Wycliff over the cell phone in her hand.  “Terrific! I’ll see you soon!”  Laurel hung up, closed the phone and slipped it into her purse.  “I’m leaving now,” she told her husband Dillon.   
          “Huh? Oh.  Where again?” asked Dillon.   
          “The Mall,” answered Laurel vaguely.  “It’s a ladies’ day out!” she told him.  “You know where a bunch of us get together to have lunch and gossip…”  
          Laurel was glad Holly was not home and hadn’t heard what she’d said.  Holly and Vernon were out doing their Karate—no Holly already had a black belt in the Tang Soo Do and they practiced that in the evenings.  Recently, Holly signed up for Judo.  Tang Soo Do taught skills that assumed the person remained on her feet during the encounter.  Judo focused on other things, throws, take-downs, falls, how to land safely from a fall, recovery after a fall...  When Laurel had asked, Holly had dipped her head and mumbled “Knowing Tan Soo Do hadn’t been enough…”  
          “Kind of early,” observed Dillon noting the time.  
          “Well, what’s the point of going out if you don’t do a bit of shopping too?” questioned Laurel easily.  
          “Oh,” replied Dillon.  “Have fun.”  He returned his attention to the tube.  It was Saturday; Dillon liked to relax on the weekends.  
          “I will,” assured Laurel.  Laurel left the house, got into the auto and drove off.

*****

          Laurel Wycliff didn’t drive to the Mall.  It was too public a location.  Instead she went to a very private room in an upscale restaurant. Laurel gave her name to the head waiter and he showed her into a back room.  Several women were already in the room; they looked up at Laurel’s arrival. A medium built lady with curled hair tucked neatly under a narrow-brimmed blue hat trimmed with a dark blue coloured flower wearing glasses came up to Laurel.  
          “Mrs. Wycliff?  I’m so glad you could make it!  I’m Emily Smith, Becky’s mother.  Welcome!” She reached out and embraced Laurel warmly.  Let me introduce you to everyone,” she added, “This is Mrs. Amelia Averdall,” she began bringing Laurel to a lady with sandy coloured hair.  
          “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” said Mrs. Averdall. “My Mason thinks the world of Holly.”  
          “Uh…”  
          “And Mrs. Maureen Corwin…” Mrs. Corwin was a slender well-dressed lady who tilted her head up and nodded her head briefly at Laurel.  
          “Don’t mind her,” said another lady. “Her baby’s Slytherin; she still thinks Rebecca would have survived without Holly’s help…. I’m Ananya Chopra and we all know how much your Holly did at H2.  It’s so nice to finally meet her mother…”  
          “Uh, yes, thank you.”  Holly never talked about H2 except to say it looked like Hogwarts and it took a while for them to figure out how to go home.  It was odd to learn anything of Holly’s experience at H2 from these strangers.  
          “I’m Shannon Douglass,” spoke another well-dressed lady. “Our hearts went out to you after that horrible accident,” she told Laurel. “We wanted to do something to help but Emily (Smith) said you wanted your space…” Laurel gulped guiltily. She’d never known.  Dillon had refused contact with anyone wizard connected after Holly had “died.”  It had been nice of Emily to not tell them all her efforts at contacting them had been marked “return to sender.”    
          “I’m Jemima Vaughn!” introduced another lady.  “You must be very proud of that boy of yours.”  
          “Boy?” echoed Laurel in confusion.   
          “Yes, your boy Vernon,” said another lady. “I’m, Matilda Woodbead by the way,” she continued.  “The wizard community left us high and dry last year when our children vanished!” she told Laurel.  “But your boy Vernon, if it weren’t for him, I don’t know what we’d have done!”  
          “Done?”  
          “Yes, he told us how Mr. Potter didn’t stop until he got Holly back and he wouldn’t stop until he found the children; Vernon gave us all hope! And he was right!  Not about the Potter part so much, though I do admit he was pretty impressive, but that they would all come home and they did!  I wished I could have done more than just thank him that night,” she continued, “but that wizard said Vernon was under some sort of special spell and we had to pretend he wasn’t there or he couldn’t come—funny how Wanda never noticed him at all…” she mused reflectively.  
          Laurel blinked.  The meeting.  Dillon had been indignant when Harry had requested Vernon go to whatever meeting Holly was attending.  Furious when he found out the reason why; how  _dare_ Vernon consort with any of “that lot!”  Even learning Vernon wasn’t actually talking to “that lot” hadn’t helped. The very thought that he had done anything even remotely connected to “that lot” under their very noses had been bad enough.  It had taken a lot of talking by Harry to get Dillon to give permission for Vernon to attend the meeting; Laurel hadn’t dared inquire further let alone attend the actual meeting.  Afterwards, Dillon took Vernon’s computer away for the rest of the holidays and pretended the meeting never happened… No one spoke of it.  Then both Holly and Vernon were out of the house and back to their respective schools.  Laurel had no idea what had happened at the meeting let alone that Vernon had been such an important part of it…  
          “Your boy also gave us the idea for these meetings,” added Amelia (Averdall.)  “That chat room your boy set up really seemed to help our children cope, so we decided to create a chat room for us—but in person—not faceless internet!”  
          “That’s all old news,” put in the voice of a new lady, rather tall and neatly dressed in a suit and skirt.  “I’m Leslie Fitzpatrick.  How do you feel about being unplottable?” she asked with interest.  “I think Conner wants us to be _unplottable_ too!”   
          “Uh, Dillon likes it just fine,” Laurel replied vaguely. She’d never thought about whether or not she liked the magic protection her family supposedly had; she didn’t really understand it or how it worked nor was it a choice she had been given. Dillon adamantly did not wish to be bothered by any witch or wizard but that same protection had nearly killed Holly.  “I guess, if that’s what your husband wants…” Laurel added uncertainly. She’d had the impression it wasn’t that easy to do.  Could a family become unplottable upon demand?  
          “Husband?” laughed Leslie (Fitzpatrick.)  “It’s my boy Conner who wants to hide us away!  He’s been paranoid about our safety ever since he was attacked by Sir!”  
          “Sir!” echoed Laurel in alarm.  He had attacked someone else besides Holly?   
          “You didn’t know, did you?” Leslie questioned suddenly looking deep into Laurel’s face.  “Did you know Sir nearly killed Emily’s daughter Becky, Mark Owens and his parents when he kidnapped Holly?”  
          Becky? Mark?  Those were names Laurel did know!  They were friend of Holly’s!  They had gone to the game together that day… Becky’s family had forwarded Holly’s mail when they couldn’t use owls!  That they had been injured, nearly killed, the same day…. “No!’ she whispered in shock. “I didn’t.”  Why didn’t she?  When they learned of Holly’s death, Dillon had been angry; in his grief he kicked Harry out and severed all their connections with the wizard world. Laurel never knew anything of that day but Holly’s “death,” not even how she “died.” “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Laurel said turning towards Emily Smith.  “I never knew!”  
          “That’s O.K.,” said Emily.  “You had your own grief to deal with.”  
          “But your daughter!” protested Laurel.  “I should have known!”  
          “It’s O.K.,” reiterated Emily.  “Becky’s fine, now.  They’re all fine,” she assured Laurel.  “That’s the nice thing about wizard children—they heal fast.  Come, let’s sit down,” she added. “I think the food’s ready.”  
          “You’ll never guess what happened last week,” began Shannon (Douglass) as they sat.  “I got a visit from Professor Lovegood from Hogwarts!” she told them.  
          “Really? Why?” asked Jemima (Vaughn.)  
          “It seems Hugh has been putting on _magic_ shows for the neighborhood children!”  
          “Magic?” questioned Matilda (Woodbead.)  “You mean real magic?”  
          “Yes!”  
          “Didn’t you get a letter?” asked Amelia (Averdall.)   
          “Letter?” asked Matilda.  
          “Yes, for under-aged wand use.  One came when Mason showed his wand off to Analeyse!  Caused quite a stir, mind you, owls out in the daytime with mail, you see.”  
          “Of course we got a letter,” replied Shannon (Douglass.) “But Hugh gave his show when I was out shopping; he collected the letter himself and used the owl’s arrival as part of the show!”  
          “How could he do that?” questioned Maureen (Corwin.) “Use the letter as part of the show?”  
          “It’s not his first letter!” confided Shannon.  “We got one his first year when he was trying upper class spells mentioned in the text. He’s gotten some others that we never knew about which is why they sent the professor. Repeat offender, you see.”  
          “What has that to do with using the owls as part of his show?” sniffed Maureen.  
          “Hugh’s been timing the owl arrivals!” Shannon told the group proudly.  “He figured out how long it took to get Ministry action and timed his magic show accordingly!  He’s positively brilliant!”     
          “You mean Holly isn’t the only student who used magic outside of Hogwarts?” blurted Laurel inadvertently. She’d meant to listen only, not participate.  
          “Oh, my no!” replied Jemima (Vaughn.)  “All the children do it at some time or another.”  
          “Children of _wizard_ families don’t!” assured Maureen (Corwin) stiffly.  
          “Nonsense!” insisted Shannon (Douglass.)  “Is that what Rebecca told you?  Someone’s been feeding her a stack of lies!  It’s just harder to tell when a student breaks the magic rules in those homes so they don’t get caught.”  
          “What happened?” asked Leslie (Fitzpatrick) worriedly. “With Hugh?”  
          “Oh, not much!” answered Shannon (Douglass) dismissively. “The professor told Hugh if he kept it up, they’d take his wand away.  Hugh took it well and nodded solemnly about how he shouldn’t do it again, but I doubt he paid much attention.”  
          “Why not?” asked Ananya.   
          “Because the first thing Hugh did when he got back from H2 was go back to Diagon Alley to get another wand!”  
          “A second wand?” exclaimed Maureen (Corwin.)  “Seriously?”  
          “Yes, of course,” replied Shannon (Douglass.)  “He said he was not about to go wand-less like Basu had to, ever!”  
          “What happened with Basu?” questioned Laurel sensing whatever happened had occurred at “H2.”  Despite repeated requests for more details, Holly had refused to give any but the vaguest of information about H2.   
          Shannon (Douglass) leaned in as did everyone else to hear. “The kidnapper _broke_ her wand!” she told them in a hushed voice.  
          “No!” exclaimed Maureen (Corwin.)  
          “Can you imagine being a wand _-less_ at a wizard school?” commented Jemima (Vaughn.)                                                                                                                   “Much less a wandless _prefect_ at a wizard school,” added Leslie (Fitzpatrick.)  “That had to take a lot of guts.  I think Conner has a second wand too,” she added.  
          “And Jordon!” agreed Jemima (Vaughn.)    
          “Mason’s been asking for a second wand,” said Amelia (Averdall) “He’s afraid the one he has might get broken, but they’re so expensive! He assures me he can find a cheap one…”  
          “From off the street?” put in Emily (Smith) quickly.  “Oh, don’t do that!  If you must get a second wand, save up and get a proper one from Ollivanders.”  
          “Why not?  Aren’t all wands the same?”  
          “Definitely not!  We got Becky a _street_ wand when she started Hogwarts and it didn’t work properly at all; she had to go back to Diagon Alley to get a replacement…”

*****

          Laurel Wycliff drove her auto into the garage and entered the house.  “I’m back!” she announced loudly.  
          “Have a good time?” asked Dillon looking up from the tube.  
          “Marvelous,” assured Laurel. Laurel was glad Mrs. Smith, Emily, had found her (Laurel’s) cell phone number, had called and talked her (Laurel) into coming to the luncheon. The experience had been positively _liberating!_   Laurel hadn’t before realized how isolated she had felt living in a strange world of secrecy ever since Dillon had first told Laurel his cousin Harry was a “wizard,” a _real_ wizard.  The chance to share stories and compare notes with women who _understood_ meant more than Laurel could have ever imagined.   
          Laurel entered the kitchen.  “What?”  The kitchen looked spotless!  The table was set. Several dishes filled with food rested on the counter ready for serving. Vernon was lighting one of two candles on the table as centerpieces and Holly was filling the glasses on the table with something sparkly.  
          “Ladies day out,” began Holly explaining.   
          “We figured you should have a “Mother’s day _off_ too!” added Vernon.  
          Dillon walked in behind Laurel and squished past her. “Hope you’re hungry,” he said as he slid out the chair at Laurel’s usual place and invited her to sit.  “I got tons of food.”  
          Laurel sat down in the chair provided.  “Thank you,” she told them with a smile as everyone else sat. “That was so thoughtful of you!” Despite all the stress and weirdness, Laurel loved her family very much.

*****   


	13. Ivy

          Ivy Malfoy walked determinedly down the road.  She’d been walking for what seemed an eternity.  Ivy had gotten up super early and told the maid she intended to take a long bath…. Once in the bathroom, Ivy locked the door, changed into her walking clothes (previously stashed in a cupboard,) slipped through the window and headed out.  Ivy kept to the bushes and avoided anyone she saw. Being early morning there were few people about anyway.  No one tried to stop her; Ivy doubted they had even noticed her.  Leaving was much easier than she expected.  
          Less easy was continuing on after the euphoria of _escaping_ had worn off.  Ivy found herself walking down a lonely road with sheep on either side that seemed to go on forever.  Ivy had set out for London.  How far could it be? It never took much time to get there when they took the Express…. Certainly, Ivy knew _Muggles_ would take longer to get to London, to get anywhere, but she had no idea it would take _this_ long…  
          To make matters worse, Ivy had no idea which way to turn when she came upon the first intersection....  Ivy hadn’t asked anyone at Smythe manor for directions to London; they would surely remember and tell Smythe where to look for Ivy once he realized she had left.  So Ivy was forced to make her best guess.  She chose “downhill” and kept on walking…. A couple of Muggles in their noisy transport vehicles passed by Ivy without stopping.  It was good they didn’t stop; they hadn’t come to take her back. On the other hand, Ivy had been walking for a long time.  Her legs ached, her feet hurt, as did her hips.  Ivy felt so tired she would have happily taken the Knight Bus, had she a wand to flag it down.  Even Stan’s grungy taxi was sounding pretty good. Ivy would _never_ , _ever_ , ask for assistance (as in a ride) from Muggles even if she knew how, which she didn’t, but at this point, riding in a Muggle transport didn’t sound all that bad...    
          The rumble of another Muggle transport sounded behind Ivy. It started out soft, grew louder and then came to a stop next to Ivy.  _“Smythe!”_ Ivy thought in a panic to herself.  She looked about hopefully—stone fence paralleling the road, sheep beyond.  There was no place to run; besides, she was too tired.  Ivy turned and braced herself for a confrontation.   
          The vehicle looked a lot like the Sidewinder Express, except it was a shiny black instead of emerald green.  Like the Express, the windows were tinted.  Ivy wondered if the inside also mirrored the interior of the Express…The window closest to Ivy slid down silently.  The interior was dark; Ivy could not see anyone inside from her vantage point.  
          “We seem to be traveling in the same direction,” came a feminine voice from within the vehicle.  “Would you like a lift?”   
          “Sure!” agreed Ivy instantly.  The voice sounded fairly young and friendly enough.  It was definitely not Smythe, or Walsh or anyone else Ivy knew from the Smythe residence...  Besides, it wasn’t as if Ivy had asked for the ride….  It was offered…   Ivy stepped up to the door and waited…. The Chauffeur got out and opened the door for Ivy. Ivy could clearly see the other passenger, now.  She older, mid-twenties, and wore a trim royal blue suit and skirt. A stylish pillbox hat adorned her head and a short matching netting hid her eyes.   
          Ivy got in and sank gratefully in the white leather seat while the chauffeur closed the door.   
          “What’s your name?” the lady asked curiously while the chauffeur walked to the driver side of the vehicle.  
          “Ro-uh, Roxanne Maloy,” answered Ivy firmly.  She still didn’t get what was wrong with “Roxy” but she didn’t want another Muggle _laughing_ at her name!  
          “That’s a very pretty name,” said the lady approvingly.  
          “What’s yours?” Ivy asked.  
          “Mrs. Vanessa Montague.”

*****


	14. Ivy

          Mrs. Vanessa Ibott Montague studied the child sitting next to her. Who was she?  More important, how could she, Vanessa, _use_ the child?  Despite her scruffy appearance the child was no common employee; an employee would have never _dared_ get in the limo with her _betters._ (Or taken considerably more persuasion before entering.) And if she was one of those uncouth ruffians who _would_ dare such a thing, then the child would have never waited expectantly for the chauffeur to open the door for her first...  
          “Where are you headed?” Vanessa asked in a casual sounding voice.  
          “London,” the child answered promptly.  
 _Walking to London?  Seriously? Didn’t the child realize how far away that was?_ “Then you are indeed fortunate,” purred Vanessa aloud. “I was going to London too.” Vanessa wasn’t.  The chauffeur had instructions to take them back to her chateau.   
          “It’s a very long … walk … to London,” Vanessa added keeping her voice casual. “Why didn’t the Smythes take you?”  
          “The Smythes!” exclaimed the girl.  “How did you know I was with the Smythes?”  
          “It is the only place near-by that might suitably accommodate a person of your … quality,” explained Vanessa smoothly.  
          The child puffed up visibly at the implied compliment. The answer sounded good but was not why Vanessa knew the girl had been with the Smythes.  
          Vanessa had been stewing for nearly a year about the incident after the Debutant Ball.  Hilbert had told Vanessa to “forget it!”  That the Wycliffs, were beneath their notice or interest.  But Vanessa could not forget!  Not while a video still existed out there in _her_ possession revealing Vanessa’s failed attempt to incriminate Perkins, not while that, that _witch_ knew about her other attempt to incriminate Perkins!   
          No, Vanessa did not believe “Jane” Wycliff was actually a “Witch” as Hilbert reported the brother had said; Jane was merely a rather good chemist, nothing more.  But Jane and her brother were a danger as long as the things they had and knew could surface at any time threatening to ruin Vanessa’s political and social aspirations.  Vanessa needed to protect herself, needed to insure nothing ever appeared, and if it did, the source would be so discredited as to be inconsequential.  But that meant learning everything she could about the Wycliffs.   
          That had proven very difficult.  While Hilbert knew the brother, he had never before met the sister. Worse, he did not know where the Wycliffs lived.  So Vanessa secretly hired a detective to find the family.  Unfortunately, Smeltings did not contain any residence information on the Wycliffs.  Despite a posted Facebook page, unlike other Facebook postings, the Wycliff’s page contained no photos or home information!  Other usual methods of locating a family proved equally fruitless. It was if they had vanished off the face of the earth.   
          So Vanessa’s only link to the mysterious sister was Gregory Smythe.  Vanessa kept the detective on retainer to watch the Smythes.  About a month ago, the Detective reported that an auto belonging to a private physician had entered the Smythe mansion driveway at 3:23am.  Afterwards, the Smythes added a residential nurse to their staff employment lists.  A week later the Smythe staff circulated a photo of a young girl with bandages on her neck asking if anyone knew her...  The detective had gotten a copy of the photo and given it to Vanessa.  It was of the child claiming to be Roxanne Maloy.  The detective had also called Vanessa early in the morning informing her that he had seen the child walking out and away from the Smythe driveway….    
          The opportunity was too good to miss.  That the child was leaving alone, on foot, indicated an argument or disagreement of some sort. A sympathetic ear might learn all sorts of interesting things about the Smythes, things Vanessa could use to find the Wycliffs or use as leverage to force the Smythes to help Vanessa get to the Wycliffs.

*****

          Ivy Roxanne Malfoy listened with surprise to the explanation Montague had given.  There was a bit of logic to the response, but seriously?  Ivy was sure she had left Smythe property ages ago; there was no way Montague could assume Ivy had come from the Smythes unless…  “Smythe called you, didn’t he?” Ivy accused.  
          “What? No of course not!” denied Montague.  “Why would he do that?”  
          She sounded convincing but Ivy refused to believe Montague had just “figured” it out on her own.  She was only a Muggle!  But how else would Montague have known Ivy had been at the Smythes?  
          “I confess I am appalled at the shabby treatment you have received from Smythe,” continued Montague in a scandalized voice.  “He should have escorted you to London himself,” she continued, “instead of forcing you to _walk_.”   
          Montague had a point, except Ivy hadn’t told Smythe she was leaving so he had no chance to provide her a ride.  Ivy suddenly realized she had made a terrible mistake in telling Montague her destination.  If Montague was working for Smythe, Smythe now knew where Ivy wanted to go. How could she make the destination appear less significant?  
          “Smythe took away my cell phone!” Ivy whined in her best “look at what Scorpius did!” voice. “And then he _broke_ it when I tried to get it back!”  That’s what Smythe had threatened the maid when he saw her on the phone so it was a reason Ivy was fairly certain Montague would understand.  Ivy started to sob.  They were crocodile tears over the nonexistent phone; the maid had been quite upset at the prospect of losing her phone.  
          “That’s terrible!” murmured Montague sympathetically.   
          Ivy sniffed and gulped.  “I was going to London to get another!” Ivy told Montague as she pretended to wipe tears from her face.  There! Ivy couldn’t undo earlier words but she had provided a different purpose for the trip.  
          “You poor thing,” murmured Montague sympathetically.  “Did he do anything else?”  
           It was a simple enough question but all sorts of alarm bells rang within Ivy.  It was doubtful someone working for Smythe would ask questions about Smythe; but equally hard to believe that this complete stranger actually _cared_ anything about Ivy and her troubles; it was almost as if she wanted something else from Ivy…. It was as if she were a … _Slytherin?????_   That was it! That silky voice and honeyed questions were all very Slytherin in nature!!!  Was it possible?  Of course not!  Montague was a _Muggle!_   Not Slytherin! Then again…. _Of course!_   That’s why the Sorting Hat kept on putting Mudbloods in the Slytherin House.  There were actually Muggles out there who tended to think like Slytherins.  Ivy felt her body almost relax with the realization.  If she treated Montague like a Slytherin, then things were easy!   
          The Slytherin House was a place filled with intrigue. Every word spoken had more than one meaning.  Information was never freely given and not always accurate.  The challenge was in figuring out the other meanings without giving up anything and determining how best to use that knowledge.  
          “He made me stay in my room the whole time!” Ivy whined. Never let on what you actually know. Begin with a grain of truth and then spin it so it fills your purpose.  In this case making Ivy look good.  The “truth” the _whole_ truth was never spoken unless it served the _speaker_ too.   
          “Did he?  And you escaped?”  
          “Yes!  I crawled out the bathroom window when he wasn’t looking and ran!”  
          “My! How very enterprising of you,” Montague said with open admiration—no it wasn’t admiration, it was a smile that didn’t quite reach Montague’s eyes. And that tone of voice—  Warrington spoke a lot like that too.  Definitely Slytherin.  Warrington sounded like that when she spoke to the Slytherin Firsts.   
          There was always a “Welcoming” party in the Slytherin Common Room after the sorting.  It was a great opportunity to meet important family members and make connections. Warrington had been very interested in Ivy and had asked all sorts of questions. Ivy had been flattered by the attention so of course showed Warrington her new spell-check quill letting Warrington “try” it out.  Then Warrington refused to return the quill saying it was “hers” all along.  The prefect believed Warrington and Scorpius said Ivy should have known better, should have realized that a fourth year would never pay attention to a first unless she wanted something…  
          So what did Montague want…  
          “What else did Smythe do?” Montague asked in a concerned sympathetic voice.  
 _Smythe!!!_   Of course! That could explain why Montague knew Ivy had come from the Smythes!  She was watching the Smythes and had seen Ivy leave!  
          “When will we get to London?” Ivy asked dodging the question. Montague wanted the Smythes; Ivy wanted other things.  “I’ve just _got_ to get a new phone!” she whined.  
          Montague smiled.  “You know, other places sell phones besides London.  In fact, there’s a small shop right near where I live.  If you want one so bad, we could stop there…”  
          “No, I couldn’t do that,” protested Ivy.  “My money,” she added while modestly lowering her eyes, “it’s in a bank in London and I uh, left without my, ah,” _What was it Smythe called it?_ _Oh, yes!_   “… card…”  
          Montague frowned.  Then she smiled.  “But I have a _card,”_ she informed Ivy in a cheerful voice.  “We can use it for now and you can pay me back later, when we get to London…”  
          “No, that wouldn’t be right,” refused Ivy in a righteous voice.  “I can’t ask you to do that…”  
          “Of course you can,” assured Montague.  “We’re friends, aren’t we? Or, I’d like to be…” she added smiling warmly.  
 _“Yeah, right!”_ thought Ivy derisively viewing the smile as more predatory than friendly.  _“Like I’d_ ever _be_ friends _with you!”_   But aloud Ivy said, “We are? Really?  That’s terrific!  I’ve always wanted a friend like you,” she gushed.  “I can’t wait to have a phone again!  Then I can … _call_ you!”  
          “You could!” agreed Montague still smiling.  “But first we have to get that phone.”  She picked up something and spoke into it telling someone, presumably the chauffeur, their new destination.  When she finished, Montague turned to Ivy and said, “It shouldn’t take long to get to the store.  And while we’re on the way, why don’t you tell me all about what happened to your other phone…”

*****

          Ivy Malfoy lovingly fingered the smooth surface of her new cell phone.  _“Mine!”_ she thought to herself with satisfaction.  _“All mine!”_ Ivy kept up a steady chatter all the way to the phone shop.  She talked mainly about the Smythes because they seemed to interest Montague the most.  Ivy’s words were all lies, mostly.  Ivy had no intention of talking about herself honestly and anything else Ivy knew would have taken but a few minutes to relate and was frankly rather boring.  When Montague “causally” asked about doctor visits, Ivy spun a tale about a pregnant maid delivering a baby early one morning. Of course, Ivy didn’t know who the father was but she had her suspicions, especially as they never took the maid or baby to a proper hospital…  
           The phone shop was filled with all sorts of muggle stuff, some Ivy recognized from the Smythe place.  Ivy insisted none of the phones were the kind she recognized or knew how to use and demanded to be taken to London.  The clerk, no doubt fearing a loss in sales, offered to “set up the phone” and show Ivy how to use it…. Ivy picked out the most expensive phone in the shop and the clerk cheerfully helped Ivy set up a password for it and “download” whatever he deemed necessary for proper usage…  Ivy batted her eyes sweetly and asked Montague for her number to put on her “contacts” list.  Not knowing how to do it herself, Ivy let Montague put it in herself while she watched. It was the only phone number entered. Ivy looked down and “confessed” all her other friends had put in their own numbers too so Ivy couldn’t put them back in by memory.  
          Afterwards, Montague invited Ivy for a lunch at a nearby Muggle café.  The food was better than H2, but rather boring compared to Slytherin fare.  Then Montague offered to show Ivy her mansion and gave Ivy a tour…  Ivy loudly praised Montague’s place, garden, style, furnishings, decorations, uniforms whatever, especially when compared to that of the Smythes.  As she toured, Ivy wondered loudly if their food was better too, and received an invitation for dinner.   
          Ivy met the husband, Hilbert Montague right before dinner. He was surprisingly good looking. Ivy made sure the Montagues knew how much better their food was than the  _pig slop_ served by the Smythes.  While she ate, Ivy repeated all the stories she had told while in the limo adding more details to keep them interesting.  Mr. Montague didn’t seem nearly as interested until Mrs. Montague asked Ivy if she had ever heard of or met somebody named _Jane_ while there.  “Of course,” agreed Ivy promptly though she couldn’t when or the details. Then Ivy changed the subject and told them it was time for her to leave—that she didn’t want to take advantage of their hospitality, was tired and needed to find a place to sleep for the night.  That resulted in an invitation to stay in their guest room…  Ivy let herself be persuaded to remain promising to talk more of Jane in the morning when she was rested….  
          Ivy checked the time feature of her new phone and sighed. 2:00am.  She really needed to get some sleep.  Finally left alone in her room, Ivy had used the opportunity to read the manual and try out some of the things her new phone supposedly did.  It would take a while.  Just deciding upon a ring tone (whatever that was used for) had taken forever—there were so many sound choices.   
          Ivy slid her new phone into the stand designed to “charge” it. As she did, Ivy reflected upon the events of the day.  It was hard work doing all the talking.  Ivy resolved to spend the next day getting the Montagues to talk and find out why they were so interested in the Smythes and this Jane person.  Then Ivy could use the information and tailor her future stories accordingly.  If she told her tales right, Ivy figured she could use them to persuade the Montagues into getting her some more clothing and maybe a computer…

*****


	15. Leila

          “No!” screamed Leila Pilkington.  “I want out!  Let me out!” Leila woke with a start and a shudder. She cautiously opened her eyes and recognized the familiar furniture of her bedroom; she was home; escape was no longer necessary.  She turned over in her bed and saw the curly black hair and brown eyes of Nadia Turay staring back at her.  
          That was normal, sort of.  Nadia Turay was staying with her family.  She was the little sister Leila had never had.  Course Nadia was never what Leila had imagined as a little sister.  Nadia had olive skin, frizzy black hair, huge glasses and wore all black.  Though more open than she was at school, Nadia was still quiet and kept to the shadows.  
          “What are you doing here?” asked Leila.  It was _her_ bedroom, not Nadia’s and judging by the light it was in the middle of the night.   
          “You had a nightmare,” Nadia told Leila.  
          “It’s fine,” said Leila dismissively.  
          “Mum says you’ve been having a lot of them.”  
          “You’re not supposed to be talking to your mum,” Leila scolded.  Nadia’s mum was dead but somehow still attached to Nadia.  Leila knew this because her father had told her about it before inviting Naida to stay with his family.  
          Nadia shrugged.  “Mum’s there; I love her; we talk.  She says they’re about H2.”  
          Leila shrugged.  “I’ll get over them.”  
          “Mum says you didn’t have nightmares at Hogwarts.”  
          Leila didn’t bother answering.  There was no point.  She hadn’t had nightmares at Hogwarts.  She couldn’t afford to have nightmares then; too much was at stake. But now, after all the danger was over, totally over, the nightmares had come with a vengeance.  Sort of a delayed stress reaction.  
          “She says you’re all having nightmares.”  
          That was new.  Leila didn’t know anyone else in her family was having nightmares too.  
          “She wants to help.”  
          “I don’t need help,” denied Leila.  “I’ll get over it,” she assured.  
          “Wants to help me,” added Nadia, “and you.”  
          “How?”  
          “H2,” answered Nadia.  “No one talks about it; it’s like last year never happened; but it did and it’s all you dream about.  I dream too. About Hogwarts.  I want to see H2.  I know I supposedly went there, but all I saw was Hogwarts.  I want to see H2, _need_ to see H2.”  
          “H2 is gone,” said Leila.  
          “No, it isn’t,” replied Nadia.  “It’s _alive_ in your mind.  Mum wants to use your memories to show me H2,” explained Nadia further.  “Maybe talking about H2 and showing me will help you...”  
          Leila thought about her words.  It was an interesting idea, but would it do any good?  It was risky letting someone enter her mind for any reason.  
          “You’ll be awake the whole time,” added Naida as if reading Leila’s mind.  “In control. You’ll be able to stop any time you want.  She won’t do it unless you agree.”  Nadia stared at Leila waiting for a response.  
          On the other hand, Father has said Reagan Turay (Nadia’s mum) had been a wonderful person and wouldn’t hurt anyone.  Perhaps it was better to know now than later whether that was true…  
          “What do I do?”  
          Nadia sat down besides Leila.  “Give me your hand,” she instructed.  Leila placed her hand in Nadia’s.  Nadia gave Leila’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Close your eyes and think of H2.”   
          Leila closed her eyes.  Almost immediately Leila found herself in the Ravenclaw dorm with Nadia standing next to her holding Leila’s hand tightly.  
          “It’s just like Hogwarts,” said Nadia in disappointment.   
          Leila looked around again. It did look like Hogwarts. But it wasn’t.  The room lacked all the personal touches that happen with continuous living; they’d been too afraid to sleep in the dorm while at H2.   
          “No, not Hogwarts,” corrected Leila and suddenly they were standing outside with the front lawn dug up and laid bare revealing a smooth gray surface beneath.   
          “Oh, no!” whispered Nadia in horror.  “What happened?”  
          “We moved it,” Leila answered matter-of-factly.  “The earth that was on top,” she clarified.   
          “But why?”  
          “We needed it so the trees and root plants could grow…” And they were standing in Lulu’s watching the young trees sprout leaves and twigs and branches right before their eyes.  The cycle of life and renewal had been reassuring to Leila despite the speed it happened.  
          “And there was enough earth?”  
          “It always returned. Outside.  When _you_ did,” Leila added suddenly realizing she stood next to the elusive “Nellie.” Who Nellie was and why she returned or when had been a topic of much discussion between the Ravenclaws.  When it became clear her arrival was somehow connected with the renewal of food and grounds, the Ravenclaws had desperately tried to control, or at least predict, her arrivals; they had been unsuccessful. Even now, knowing what she knew, Leila was afraid to inquire, to learn the basis of Nellie’s arrivals, the appearances upon which their very survival had hinged.  “…and we dug up more dirt until we had enough.”  As she spoke Leila remembered the hours and hours she had spent digging up that dirt and hauling it to the required places.  The work had been exhausting even with the use of magic spells.  
          “That’s horrible!” whispered Nadia.  
          “We managed,” said Leila dismissively.  That’s what she always said when people commented on the difficulties they had gone through.  At the time, though, nothing had been certain and desperation had driven them on.  “And things got better.”  
          “Or not,” said Naida.  Abruptly the lights seem to wink out.  They were in the Memorial room lit by a single torch with bed upon bed filled with students and others sitting next to them whispering, “Live! Live!”  
          “What happened?” questioned Nadia.  
          “The Slytherins got sick,” answered Leila simply, “real sick.” Surely Nadia had read the basic accounts of events at H2.  It was also the time when Leila had realized Holly Wycliff was suicidal—that they had more to worry about than kidnappers, escape and food.  Then, when they were putting Richards in a bed in the Memorial, Leila had found his stash of poisonous plants.  She had turned them over to Head Boy and friend Jeremy Corner. Jeremy took one look, sighed heavily and told Leila “he’d take care of it.”  Potion supplies were carefully collected after each renewal and kept under tight guard after that.  No mention was ever made of Richards’ poisonous plants again.  
          “Grandmum spoke to me every day,” Nadia began softly. “Mostly she read to me; books, old letters, newspapers—anything she could find to spark my interest, get me to wake up… They were just words at the time, with little meaning, but now…”  Nadia stared as more and more students were carried in and laid down on beds.  Then she added, “Grandmum said the Slytherins were planning an attack; that the first spell cast would happen the day one of their children died…”  
          The _Healthstones!_   Leila had taken comfort in the knowledge that at least her parents had known she was all right, but the Healthstones would have conveyed other information to the Slytherin parents…  Jeremy had insisted they do everything possible to save the Slytherins, that they were as important as the rest, that they needed each other to survive…  Leila had no idea that their near calamity in H2 had spilled over into the lives of the rest of the wizard community.  Jeremy had done more than save the students with his actions.  Had Jeremy known or suspected something like that might happen?   
          “Grandmum sounded rather disappointed when it was called off,” Nadia murmured as the scene changed and they stood against the wall watching Richards make his entrance after his bout with food poisoning. Richards had been the last of the ill to recover.  His return had been more important than they had realized.  
          “Why did you let Richards lead?” questioned Nadia as they watched Jeremy helped Richards up on the stage.   
          “He’s the Headmistress’ Assistant!” answered Leila simply.  
          “So?  That title would have never stopped us last year!” Nadia answered disdainfully.  
          “It didn’t stop us this year either,” Leila told Nadia.  “We told Richards he could keep his title, if he didn’t abuse it—and then we watched.”  
          “Yes.  Richards actually wasn’t so bad,” concluded Leila reflectively.  “He kept the school going and bought us time, while we concentrated on more important things.”  
          “More important things?”  
          “Escape!” Even now Leila could remember the hours they had spent in their “dorm” discussing bits and pieces of information, trying to make sense where there was seemingly none.  Hers was a double job, worrying about escape _and_ Richards.  Jeremy would not let them quit; would not let them give up.  “We’re Ravenclaws,” he challenged day after day.  “There’s nobody better than us!  We will figure this out!  We must!  We will get home, _all_ of us!”  
          “I’m so sorry!” whispered Nadia.  
          Leila turned and hugged Nadia impulsively.  “Jeremy insisted that we find a way to get everyone home, no exceptions!  I guess that includes you too.”  
          “Check this out!”  Leila suddenly said no longer wanting to dwell on the uncertainties they had undergone.  She and Nadia stood on the edge of the quidditch pitch where they could see a flurry of flyers wearing Ravenclaw blue and Hufflepuff yellow zooming about overhead. One helmeted rider wearing a blue and yellow tabard swooped upwards, a battered snitch held high in one hand—   
          “And the Yellowtail Dragons win!” shouted announcer Jordon Vaughn excitedly amidst the cheers of all the students in the stadium. “That ends the first H2 quidditch match,” she continued loudly though nobody bothered to listen.  They were all filing out of the stadium headed towards the tables.  Nadia and Leila followed.   
          Several tables were set up with a magnificent spread of food.   
          “Wow!” exclaimed Nadia.  “How did that happen?”  
          “Winky fixed it!  She’s a wonderful cook.”  The food had been fantastic that day.  
          “Winky?”  
          “Holly’s house elf.”  
          “Holly has a house elf?  Seriously?”   
          Leila nodded.  
          “When did that happen?”  
          “Not sure,” answered Leila thoughtfully, “but it had to be sometime after Sir captured her.  If it were before, he couldn’t have kept hold on Holly; house elves are very protective of their charges.  But don’t mention that you know,” Leila added confidentially. “It’s kind of a secret. Holly pretends we don’t know and we let her pretend.”   
          “But you know.”  
          “We know,” concurred Leila.  
          “Everyone?”  
          “Everyone at school.  The Hufflepuffs know because, well, Holly’s a Hufflepuff.  We Ravenclaws figured it out after Holly started serving the _special_ food to the Slytherins to keep them alive when they were sick; they weren’t Muggle dishes, you see. The Slytherins got the food; so they know and the Gryffindors, well, the Potters and Fitzpatrick certainly know and the rest, how could they not?” Leila frowned.  “I take that back, some of the Gryffindors are so busy trying to be heroes they don’t think about the food they eat.  Perhaps they don’t know…”  
          Nadia laughed.  “What made the Slytherins so sick?” she asked curiously.   
          “Food poisoning,” answered Leila flatly.   
 _“No!_  I poisoned them?”  
          “Not intentionally, no, I don’t think so,” answered Leila.  “But food goes bad when it’s left out too long and some of that food had been left out a while.”  
          “I don’t understand.”  The scene changed to a door, laid flat on a table, and on it the spoiled remains of Slytherin leftovers.  
          “Eww!” said Nadia.  “Why were they eating that?”  
          “There was nothing else,” answered Leila omitting the fact the Slytherins hadn’t taken proper care of what little food they had.  
          “But, the trees!  The apples!  And oranges?”  
          “We didn’t have them yet,” explained Leila.  The scene shifted to the kitchen, the counter filled with food.  “This was all we had,” Leila told Nadia, “until Nellie, until you, came again. And you didn’t come every day…”  
          “That’s it?”  Nadia asked in disbelief.  
          “Yeah,” affirmed Leila.  “It got old real fast,” Leila added dryly.  
          “I peeked into the kitchen once,” whispered Nadia.  “It’s what they were serving that day; then the house elves chased me out!”  
          “Better than nothing,” said Leila pragmatically. Things would have been infinitely worse had Nadia never seen the insides of the kitchen.  There would have been no food at all!   
          “You’ve seen the worst,” Leila said suddenly.  “You should see what we accomplished.” The scene changed; they were in Lulu’s Greenhouse.  Snow drifted overhead, but none of the flakes fell inside.  Richards’ glass roof, held together by grapevine frames, let in the daylight. Greenery abounded.  The orchard blossomed; colourful pollination moths swirled in between the leaves and flowers; fresh fruit ripened as they watched. “It’s beautiful!” exclaimed Nadia.  
          “Yes,” agreed Leila.  “It is.”  Perhaps she could grow some vines and make a small greenhouse behind her house.  After all, she knew how.  
          They were again sitting on Leila’s bed in her room.  
          “Thank you for showing me H2,” said Nadia.  She leaned over and hugged Leila.  
          “It was … nice,” admitted Leila while hugging Nadia in return. It had felt good to reflect upon H2, more than she expected.  Perhaps something like that would be good for her parents, too.  The talking part, not the memory trip; that was between Nadia and her.  
          “What are you two doing up?”  Leila looked at her mum standing in the doorway.  How long had she been there?  
          “I had a dream,” admitted Leila.  “Nadia was helping.”  
          “A bad one?”  
          “Bad and good.”  
          “Do you want to talk about it?”  
          “In the morning.  I’m sleepy now; we both are.”  
          “O.K.  Good night.”  
          “Good night.”

*****


	16. Holly

         “What’s wrong?” asked Holly Wycliff.  
          “Nothin!” exploded Greg.  Holly stared at Greg wordlessly.  They both knew he was lying.  It was pretty obvious even if Holly wasn’t an empath.  “Nothing that affects you,” amended Greg looking down and away.  
          Well, that was true enough so Holly let the question slide. She didn’t want to pry.  She and Greg were in the limo on their way to an opera.  Dinner and opera, actually.  The two had planned to go out the previous month, but Greg had called to cancel claiming something unexpected had come up and proposed an opera featuring the works of Mozart instead.  Fortunately, Holly had gotten Vernon to show her how to retrieve messages from her cell phone (and checked it regularly during the summer) so she was able to mark her calendar and plan accordingly.  
          Dinner was less than idyllic.  Greg was upset about whatever it was that he didn’t want to talk about and seemed unable to talk about anything else.  Holly wasn’t much of a conversationalist on her own—there was so much in her life she couldn’t talk about, at least not to Greg.  Attempts at discussing the weather and news somehow fell flat; Greg didn’t do much more than grunt as a response.  So, a perfectly good Indian dinner was ruined by the uncomfortable silence between them.  
          The opera wasn’t much better.  Sure, the musicians were probably terrific, but Holly couldn’t focus on the music; Greg was a simmering volcano sitting next to her, one too close to completely block.  And if she did manage to block him, all the other emotions further away would be blocked too, which totally defeated the purpose of going to an opera!  At least it did for Holly.  
          Abruptly Holly rose.  “I’m leaving,” she told Greg.   
          “What?” he sputtered with surprise rising also.  
          “You can stay if you wish,” Holly told him and she slid between the seats making her way to the aisle.   
          Greg hastily followed.  “What’s up?” he questioned with confusion.  At least his new emotions weren’t the simmering frustration kind. Holly didn’t answer but kept walking out; she didn’t want to talk in the concert hall and ruin the opera for all the other listeners.  
          “Jane?” protested Greg.  “Why are you leaving?”  
          Holly didn’t stop until she had reached the lobby.  It was empty of people.  Then she whirled around to confront Greg. “It’s not working!” she told him.  “I can’t enjoy the opera with you sitting next to me all frustrated!  I just can’t!  And there’s no point in being here otherwise!”  
          “Huh?” Greg looked at her with surprise.  “But I didn’t say any—”  
          “Body language,” interrupted Holly though that wasn’t it at all. “It’s all over you!” Holly added. Greg did not know she was an Empath and Holly wanted to keep it that way. “Now, I know it isn’t any of my business,” Holly continued, “but maybe it would help if you just talked about whatever it is that’s bothering you so. If not,” she added, “that’s O.K. but I just can’t sit next to you when you’re this upset and we might as well call it quits for the night.”  Holly waited. Either Greg would tell her what was up or she’d be going home.  
          Holly turned and headed for the exit.  
          “It’s just not fair!” Greg exploded behind her.   
          Holly stopped and turned around.  “What’s not?” she asked. Not fair about what?  Her leaving or something else?  
          “I’ve been clean for over two years!” Greg continued.  “ _Two_ years!” he repeated.  “Father finally let me off the leash and I was going about on my own without somebody always looking over my shoulder.  And now I can’t!”  
          “You can’t?” questioned Holly in disbelief. What had happened?   
          “No!  He says he can’t trust me; wants to send me back to Switzerland!  And I was _clean!_  I swear!”  
          “You were,” agreed Holly. Greg positively oozed honesty.  “So why doesn’t he trust you?”  
          “Because, because, well…” Greg moved closer.  He looked anxiously around the lobby.  “It happened again!” he said in a whisper.  
          “What?”  
          “Roxy!”  
          “Huh?”  
          “She wasn’t there!  I swear!  And then she was!”  
          “Huh?”  
          “I just looked down for a minute and then she was there! She wasn’t there before I swear!”  
          “What do you mean? What happened?”  
          “I was on my way home,” Greg began, “I don’t know how it happened, but one minute everything was fine and then she was there—right in front of me!  I tried to stop,” he told Holly, “but it was too late.  There was no way I could miss her!”    
          “Roxy?”  
          “Yeah.”  
          “You _hit_ her?” Holly asked in disbelief.  Had she understood him correctly?  Had he really done what she thought he’d done?  
          “Yeah.” Shame and guilt oozed out everywhere.  
          “With your auto?” Holly persisted, unable to believe what she was hearing.   
          “Uh, kind of…”  
_Again? It seemed impossible_!  “How could you!” Holly accused.  “Were you speeding?”  
          “No! Of course not!” Holly glared.  Greg wilted. “yes, maybe,” he conceded under Holly’s accusing gaze. “But the road was clear, I swear!” Greg insisted. On that point he positively oozed honesty but the situation seemed so bazaar; there had to be an explanation… “Could somebody have drugged you and you didn’t know it?” Holly persisted.  
          “I was out shopping not partying!” Greg retorted angrily.  “So no, no one drugged me! They wouldn’t do that kind of thing.  One minute the road was clear and then it wasn’t—and Roxy was there! … Just like you,” Greg added in a smaller voice.  “I admit I was drinking that night, but not this time! I swear!”  
          Holly drew in a breath.  No wonder Greg’s father didn’t trust Greg any more.  Holly found it difficult to believe the story even when she had an Empath’s edge and knew Greg wasn’t lying…. Holly had no idea how Roxy had ended up in front of Greg’s auto.  She couldn’t remember much of anything after jumping out the train window. She knew Sir had hit her with a _confringo_ spell as she had fallen, but beyond that…. The situation Greg now described was so similar yet so unbelievable, even when she knew for certain Greg was telling what he considered the truth…. “What happened to, ah, Roxy?” Holly asked aloud.   
          “Well, I could tell she was injured so I put her in my auto and took her home,” Greg answered promptly no doubt relieved to not have to answer more questions about the accident.  
          “Not a hospital?” questioned Holly.   
          “The way father fears a scandal, of course not!”  
          “Meadowsgate?”  
          “Never!” Greg assured.  “She was too young for that place, _you_ were too young for that place,” he admitted. But that choice hadn’t been his to make at the time...  
          “How young?”  
          “Eleven, twelve, something like that,” guessed Greg.  “She never said.  Anyway, I found a private physician with a portable x-ray machine to come to our house and treat her.”  
          “And then?”  
          “Then she got better. Was up and walking about much sooner than the doctor expected.”  
          “So what’s the problem?”  
          “She left.”  
          “Left?”  
          “Yeah, got up at 5am a couple days ago and just walked out.”  
          “Five am?  You were up then to know the time?”  
          “Of course not!  We’ve all sorts of security around the house.  The monitors caught her leaving right off.”  
          “And they let her leave?”  
          “Sure.  She wasn’t a prisoner.  No one had instructions to make her stay.”  
          “So?”  
          “Well, I thought she’d head for the nearest village or maybe come back when she got tired, but she hasn’t.  Nobody’s seen her at all after that morning.  Now dad’s all worried that something might have happened to her; she might turn up dead or something and it’ll come out that we were the last place she was seen alive...”  
          “Perhaps she just went home,” Holly suggested.  
          “That’s possible,” Greg admitted. “Unfortunately, we can’t find out for sure...  We don’t know where she lives or who her parents are!”  
         “You don’t?”  
          “No, she gave her name as Roxy Maloy.  I knew right off that was a phony and told her so but she wouldn’t change it.”  
          “You knew it was a phony?  How?”  
          “I Googled it and there’s no Roxy in there anywhere.  No listing of a missing person fitting her description either.  It’s like she doesn’t exist! And that’s got dad even more worried.  He’s afraid she’ll show up unexpectedly, threaten to tell some outlandish story, nothing happened, mind you, and demand money to keep quiet or just tell tales to the news and create all sorts of horrible publicity…” Greg looked down.  His emotions were filled with worry too.  “Father says there’s no way we can luck out twice!”  
          “Twice?”  
          “Yeah.  He said he used to worry that way after, you know, you left Meadowsgate.”  
          “Meadowsgate?” echoed Holly with surprise.  
          “Yeah.  He said he looked everywhere for you, hired detectives and everything and nothing. I’ve been looking everywhere for Roxy,” Greg told her. “I can’t find anything either…”  
          “Oh. Well, maybe I can help.  I mean, I guess I’m good at hiding… Maybe I know some places to look you haven’t thought of before.  Do you think I could get a look at the security pictures?”  
          “Uh, sure.  Why?”  
          “So I can see what Roxy looks like.  My brother is pretty good with computers; maybe he can make a flier with her picture and…”  
          “Been there, done that,” assured Greg.  He pulled out his cell phone and began to tap it…  “posted her face on facebook, a-gain, searched the missing persons sites, scrolled through recently found unidentified bodies…  Your brother is not the only one who plays on computers…” he told Holly. “Though Roxy did seem a bit backwards about them,” Greg added musing.  
          “Backwards?”  
          “Yeah.  I don’t think she’d ever seen a movie on a computer before…. Or a computer for that matter, or a phone…” he added thoughtfully.  “Here!” he told her while holding out the phone.  “That’s Roxy.”  
          Holly stared in disbelief at the face on the screen—blonde hair, blue eyes and familiar features!   
_“Still!”_ said Greg abruptly.  
          “Huh?” asked Holly forcing herself to listen.  
          “She called it a “Still” not a photo…. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”  
          “Uh, yeah,” Holly replied absently while she stared at the photo. “Uh, can I borrow this for a few minutes?”  
          “Sure.”  
          Holly practically grabbed the phone from Greg’s fingers and rushed out of the lobby.

*****

          Gregory Smythe followed Jane Smith as she ran from the lobby. It was his cell phone, after all. And while he’d said she could borrow it, he wasn’t about to let it from his sight.  Besides, judging from the way she acted, Greg had a feeling Jane knew something about this Roxy, something she wasn’t saying…  
          When he made it outside, Jane was already in deep conversation with her chauffeur.  He could hear their words as he approached.   
          “It does look like her,” agreed the chauffeur.  Jane had called him Rupert before.  
          “But it can’t be!” protested Jane.  “Can it?  Isn’t she with her family?”  
          “Truth be tol’, I haven’t seen her out shoppin’ lately,” answered Rupert thoughtfully.  “But thin, it’s vacation time…”  
          “But surely they would have said something…” persisted Jane. “Tell people she’s missing so we can look for her...”  
          “P’rhaps,” said Rupert.  “Thin ag’in, they’re a pretty priv’te fam’ly…”  
          Jane twisted and looked back at Greg.  “When did you take this?”  
          “Last month,” he answered while wondering how she’d known he was there—he’d been behind Jane the whole time and never once had she turned in his direction to note his presence.  Jane must have just assumed he’d follow…  
          “A month!” exploded Jane.  “And she needed medical attention?  They would have never left her to M-local medicine!  Something’s wrong!  Very wrong!”  
          “Only if’n it’s her,” replied the chauffeur.  
          “It has to be!” Jane concluded aloud.  “But why haven’t they said anything?  We’ve got to ask the parents!  Could you?”  
          “Not me,” refused the chauffeur.  “They’d never talk wi’ th’ likes o’ me—but they might ta yer cousin…”

*****


	17. Harry Potter

          It was 8:00am.  Harry Potter took a sip of tea as he sat quietly and looked around meeting room at the Leaky Cauldron.  The last time Harry had been in the room, it had been at the request of Griphook.  The Gringotts bankers were there and the room seemed larger and table bigger...   
          This time it was Harry setting up the meeting.  Harry arrived early to make the arrangements and insure there would be no unwanted “ears.”  Today the room looked much smaller than that day with the bankers, more appropriate for a private conversation between two.  At one time, Harry would have never considered trying to speak privately with Malfoy.  Harry hated Malfoy and was sure the sentiment was mutual.  Harry had gone to Pilkington for help that first time certain nothing he could personally say would get Malfoy to show.  But that was before Sir, before Harry and Malfoy shared … secrets.  Hopeful that their relationship, slender as it was, would be enough to make a meeting possible, Harry had sent a note late last night requesting to meet with Malfoy, Senior, at 9:00am.  Harry was rather surprised that Malfoy had actually replied and agreed…   
          At 8:30am the door opened.  Lucius Malfoy walked in.  He stopped, noting Harry’s presence. Harry looked back at the arrogant pale pointed face, pale gray eyes and long pointed nose.  He noted Malfoy’s neatly brushed pale hair that hung long and loose and the dark green silk suit and matching waistcoat with gold buttons down the front.   
          “I believe you said 9 not 8:30,” he told Harry imperiously.  “Did you change the time and fail to mention it?”  
          Harry bit back an automatic response with difficulty remembering he wanted cooperation, not antagonization.  “I wanted to make sure it would be just us,” he said aloud. “Have a seat,” he suggested.  
          Malfoy looked down at Harry disdainfully.  “What is it you want?” he demanded while not sitting.   
          Harry stood.  He did not like people standing over him, especially Malfoy.  He pulled out a plain white envelope and handed it to Malfoy.   
          “What’s this?” questioned Malfoy curiously as he took the envelope and unfolded the flap.  
          Harry did not answer.  The contents would speak for themselves.  
          Malfoy froze when he saw the face on the photo within the envelope.  “Where’d you get this!” he demanded.  
          “Is it her?” asked Harry.  
          Malfoy stiffened.  “Of course not!” he denied.  “It’s just some _still_ with clever artwork,” he told Harry.   
          Harry didn’t believe him.  He’d heard the urgency in Malfoy’s voice.  Harry reached out and took the envelope with its photo from Malfoy’s fingers. “Sorry I bothered you,” he told Malfoy.  “Stay and have a meal,” he added while putting the envelope back in his pocket.  “On me.” Harry turned to leave.  He reached the door and turned the knob.  
          “What do you want!” rang out Malfoy’s voice.  
          “The truth,” answered Harry firmly.  “Is it her?”  He turned and looked at Malfoy expectantly.  
          “You would know better than I,” replied Malfoy acidly.  “It’s _your_ still _._ ”  
          “It’s only a still,” answered Harry.  “I got it last night.  Is it Ivy?” he persisted. _“Could_ it be Ivy?” he amended.  “I’m told the still is dated,” Harry added. “Taken over 30 days ago.  It is of no consequence unless … is Ivy at home now?” Malfoy did not answer.  That was what Harry had feared.  Holly was dead certain it was Ivy.   
          “What happened?” Harry asked in a softer voice. “I cannot believe you would abandon your granddaughter like—”  
          “Abandon!” cut in Malfoy.  “I would never!”  
          “She was injured!” Harry told Malfoy. “Alone! Dependent on the mercy of strangers! What would you call it?”  
          “She had her wand!” Malfoy retorted.  
          In response Harry drew out a wand— Malfoy’s face whitened visibly when he saw it.  
          “Where did you get that!” he demanded.  
          “Is it Ivy’s?” Harry asked avoiding the question. Holly hadn’t exactly asked Greg about a wand, but Greg did not mention finding anything “stick-like” when he had searched Ivy’s possessions for clues to her identity.  On a hunch, Holly got Greg to show her the location of the accident.  The place was fairly remote.  After Holly had said “good-bye” to Greg, she had gone back to the site and cast an _accio_ wand spell.  A slender stick had flown into her hands.   
          Malfoy did not answer.  Harry could guess why.  A “no,” and Harry would walk out the door with the wand.  A “yes” and he’d be admitting something the family had clearly been keeping secret for over a month.  
          “Must I ask Ollivander?” Harry pressed.  Harry didn’t need to go to Ollivander.  Holly had already proclaimed it to be Ivy’s wand. “Or shall I turn it over to Dean?” Harry threatened.   
          Malfoy’s eyes glittered venomously.  “Thomas is an incompetent fool!” he spat.   
          “I think he can manage a simple wand identification,” Harry told Malfoy dryly.  “And as it belongs to an underaged witch, I’m sure he’ll be talking to Child Services next...”  That was the choice—talk to Harry or deal with everyone else.  Harry hoped he was the more desirable option. “I want answers,” Harry said softly.  “What happened?”  
          Abruptly Malfoy’s stiff frame seemed to relax, just a fraction. “She didn’t come to dinner,” he told Harry.    
          “That it?”  
          “Yes, and breakfast afterwards… We thought she was sulking; Scorpius was bragging how he could Apparate and she had just gotten him an expensive Apparating book.”  
          “And then?”  
          “Then?”  Malfoy looked directly at Harry.  “Nothing.”  
          “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”  
          “Why should we?  She was in a secure, warded, _unplottable_ home! Ivy’s a bright imaginative child!” he continued proudly. “Children and wands, well, things happen!  They always turn up … eventually.”  
          “Except Ivy didn’t.”  
          “Until now.  Where is she?”  
          Harry sighed.  “I wish I knew,” he told Malfoy.  
          “Huh? But—”  
          “Her wand was picked up near a country road outside Bristol,” Harry added.   
          “Bristol!” exclaimed Malfoy.  “But that’s—”  
          “A long ways away, I know,” interrupted Harry. “How do you suppose her wand got there despite your secure, warded, unplottable protection?”  
          “Its secured against _in_ truders, not ex-truders,” retorted Malfoy.  
          “Yeah, you might want to think about reworking those spells a bit,” said Harry dryly.  “Anyway, the wand was found near where a … Muggle,” Harry didn’t want to involve Holly’s friends any more than necessary, “found an injured young girl, about a month ago.  He took the girl in, and tended to her injuries.”  
          “Injuries?”  
          “Yes.” Harry did not elaborate.  “She gave her name as “Roxy Maloy,” Harry continued. “Roxy, isn’t that Ivy’s middle name?”  Harry knew it was.  He’d looked it up.  
          “Roxanne,” corrected Malfoy.   
          Harry continued.  “The Muggle took that photo using it to try to find Miss Maloy’s family, but couldn’t.  Of course, I doubt he’d have found something had she given the correct name…”  
          “Why would we _ever_ involve Muggles with our affairs?” said Malfoy disdainfully.   
          “You might have found her faster…” replied Harry dryly.  “Any idea how she got there in the first place?”  
          “So, where is she?”  persisted Malfoy while ignoring Harry’s question.  
          “No idea,” Harry said promptly.  “Miss Maloy left the company of that Muggle two, no three days ago…”  
          “She left?” Malfoy echoed in disbelief.  
          “Yeah, seems she has a tendency to do that…” Harry said dryly.  “My friends are looking for her as we speak but so far, no luck.”  
          “The Muggle name and location?” demanded Malfoy. “We can do our own searching.”  
          “Yeah, well, I was kind of hoping the reason we couldn’t find her was because she’d made her way back home,” replied Harry.  “Then I could call off the search.  But I can’t, can I?”  
          Malfoy didn’t answer but his earlier reactions made it fairly clear Ivy was not at home.  Holly had insisted they start searching for Ivy immediately.  She was certain Ivy’s chances of finding her way home without her wand were slim and not at all!  Holly doubted Ivy would think to seek out a Muggle family with a wizard student let alone ask that person for help.  Short of that, Holly was positive standard wizard security and wards meant Ivy could walk by a wizard home and never know it was there.  
          “If you didn’t abandon her outside Bristol,” continued Harry in a conversational tone, “how did Ivy end up on that country road?”  
          “I don’t kno—” Malfoy broke off.  “Perhaps that book wasn’t for Scorpius,” he began thoughtfully, “despite what the vendor said…”  
          “She Apparated?” questioned Harry in disbelief. “Is that possible?  She’s too young isn’t she?”  
          “For Twycross, maybe,” agreed Malfoy disdainfully, “but that never stopped us from trying…. Actually succeeding, though, is another matter…” he added thoughtfully.   
          “It would explain that injury on her neck,” stated Harry thoughtfully.  “I’m told the doctor was at a loss on how to repair it…. It’s a Splinch!”  
          “My granddaughter—the youngest to ever Apparate—and such a distance…” mused Malfoy aloud.  There was this sickening smile on Malfoy’s face.   
          “Boast later,” Harry told Malfoy bluntly, “ _after_ we find her.”  
          “Of course,” agreed Malfoy briskly.  “I shall expect my granddaughter or word of her location within 24 hours or I shall be reporting you to the Ministry!” he threatened.  
          “Me?” asked Harry in surprise.  
          “Of course! You obviously know the Muggle name and location where she was last seen and are deliberately withholding that information from me.  That is a serious case of child endangerment!  I am holding you personally responsible for her health and welfare. And while I’m at it, her wand?” he held out his hand expectantly.   
          “Huh?”  
          “Her wand, Potter, or I’ll be charging you with wand _theft_ as well!”  Harry blinked and then held the wand out within Malfoy’s reach.  It has served its purpose.  
          Malfoy took the wand and stowed it beneath his robes. “And the _still!”_ he said holding out his hand again.  “For Narcissa,” explained Malfoy imperiously. “I think she’d be more reassured by something, _Muggle_ though it is, beyond my word.   
          Harry stared at him thoughtfully.  Was that a gleam in Malfoy’s eye?  What did it mean?  “I think not,” Harry decided aloud.  Was it possible to use the photo to locate Greg?  Harry had no idea but decided he did not want to take the risk. “Narcissa will have to make do with the wand,” he added.  Harry saw a flash of disappointment cross Malfoy’s face.  It was for but an instant.  Then his face cleared.   
         “Ah well,” Malfoy said airily.  “I’ll get it out of you later,” he promised.  “Twenty-four hours!” he reminded as he swept past Harry and out the door.   

*****


	18. Olivia

          “Hellooo, handsome!” sang Olivia in her best sultry voice.  She had carefully applied her make-up, fixed up her hair in its most attractive style and leaned suggestively against the doorway between their two shops—the Green and Gold and DeWitt’s place which didn’t actually have a name, just a separate door to the outside.  DeWitt, as usual, had his nose in a girlie magazine.  But Olivia knew she was better looking than any girl in some stupid magazine.  
          DeWitt looked up from his girlie magazine at Olivia.  His eyes rolled upward.  “Really?” he said in a voice of disbelief.  “ _Really?_  Go away!” he told her and his eyes dropped back down to the magazine.  
          Olivia felt her face warm with embarrassment.  “How dare you!” she exploded with anger.  “You can’t treat me like that!” she added as she drew her wand.  “S—”  
          Before she had finished, Olivia felt herself flying across the shop!  The wind was knocked out of her lungs as she hit the back wall!  Her wand clattered loudly as it landed on the floor several meters away.  Before she could recover, the door between their two shops slammed shut!  “You assaulted me!” Olivia screamed indignantly.  She got off the floor and headed towards the door.  “How _dare_ you!  I’ll tell everyone what you did!  You’ll be sorry!” she threatened the door.  “And when I’m done—” Olivia stopped.  Crowley was standing in the open doorway that connected her potions shop with the Green and Gold.  Her long forest green robe was accented by a gold belt tied loosely at her waist.  Her sleek black hair was swept up high in a bun held in place with a gold snake-shaped hairpin. Crowley regarding Olivia with her inky black eyes.  “You saw him!” Olivia told her with righteous fury.  “He assaulted me!  He can’t get away with that!”  
          “You were flattened by a _Hufflepuff,”_ stated Crowley dispassionately. “And you wish to _publicize_ that?”  
          “Huh?”  Abruptly Olivia felt herself hurled a second time against the wall.  But this time she did not slide to the floor.  Somehow Olivia was pinned against the wall while suspended in the air face-to-face with Crowley with Crowley’s wand digging into Olivia’s throat.  
          “You got off lucky,” Crowley told Olivia calmly as her wand poked even deeper into Olivia’s throat; her black eyes seemed to bore right through Olivia.  “If you _ever_ try to disparage myself, my family, the Green and Gold, or our employees, I shall do much, much _worse!”_   The hairs on the back of Olivia neck rose and she could feel the feathery touches of what had to be thousands of tiny bugs crawling over her skin while Crowley spoke. Abruptly Crowley removed her wand from Olivia’s throat; Olivia crashed to the floor.  When she next looked around, she was alone in the shop.   
          That answered one question.  No wonder Mrs. Crowley had eluded Azkaban!  Thomas was probably terrified of her!  Olivia had always thought Crowley rather a quiet insipid mouse, a drag on Richards’ future, especially with that Imperious Curse problem. But now, clearly there was more to her silent ways than Olivia had thought.  
          Olivia got off the floor.  She brushed off her clothes and straightened her dress.  Then she picked up her wand and walked to the door that separated the Green and Gold from Mrs. Crowley’s potions shop.  Taking a deep breath, Olivia raised her free hand and knocked.  The door swung open.  Mrs. Crowley was seated elegantly in her settee holding open a potions book.  Not a hair on her head was out of place.   
          “Does that bit about employees apply to me too?” questioned Olivia softly.  
          Mrs. Crowley looked at Olivia without speaking.  That piercing stare went right through her; Olivia felt the need to say more, to explain somehow.  “Um, about going after any who would disparage your employees? Does that include me?”  Mrs. Crowley did not answer, so Olivia stammered on.  “I mean, I _am_ one of your employees, aren’t I?”  No response.  “Sort of…” Olivia floundered and then began again, “I know it isn’t really cash, but Room and Board is a salary of sorts, so that makes me one of your employees, right?” No response.  “I mean, disparaging me would reflect poorly on the shop, wouldn’t it?”  
          “Yes.”  Mrs. Crowley returned her attention to her book.   
          Was that, “yes, disparaging you (Olivia) would reflect poorly on my shop,” or “yes I will go after anyone that disparages you?”  Did it matter?  Either way, Olivia felt a wave of relief fill her body.  She had nightmares about encounters with former classmates once they found her working in the shop… Their acidic comments would be devastating.  It hadn’t happened yet—but then it wasn’t back-to-school shopping time.  Perhaps it wouldn’t happen at all with Mrs. Crowley at her back.  
          Then Mrs. Crowley added, “Do not embarrass yourself or me again.”

*****


	19. Conner

          “Conner!  It’s for you!”  
          “Who?”  Conner Fitzpatrick shouted back not wanting to move.  He was in the middle of a fight; now was not a good time to stop the game…  
          “Some messenger,” came the response.  “Said you had to sign for it personally!”  
          “What?” _“No!”_ thought Conner as his character died and abruptly vanished _.  “Oh, well,”_ he told himself philosophically.  _“I’ll get him next time.”_  Conner quit the game, rolled off his bed and went to the door.  Sure enough, some lady in a uniform, a hat pulled down low over the eyes, holding a clipboard stood outside the door.  “What is it?” he asked the lady as he stepped outside.   
          “Couldn’t say,” she answered in a strangely familiar voice. “You Conner Fitzpatrick?”  
          “Yeah.”  
          “Sign here,” she said holding out a clipboard and pen.  
          Conner took the pen and rapidly scrawled his name on the line indicated.  The lady took back the clipboard and then handed Conner a small white envelope. The outside simply bore his name. Conner flipped the envelope and was about to open it when he realized the messenger hadn’t left.  “Well,” he asked while he tore open the flap.  “Is there anything else?”  
          “I was supposed to wait and see if you had a response,” the messenger told him.  
          “Oh.”  Conner pulled out the folded tan paper, parchment, and unfolded it.

_The auror will not sign a release. Sorry._   
_Wizard Dean Thomas,_   
_Head of Magical Law Enforcement_

          Conner crumpled the paper in disgust.  Had he really expected otherwise?  He needed to get out of here; they all did.  He’d just have to make stronger wards.   
          “Have you a response?” came the voice of the messenger.  
          “No,” muttered Conner.  What was the point? “Yes!” he suddenly exploded.  “You tell them I’m moving, we’re all moving and I don’t want to be followed! _Ever!_   Leave us alone!” he ordered.  “Tell him to tell that to, to that _auror_ too!” Conner added as an afterthought as he wheeled around to go back into the house.     
          “Wouldn’t it be easier to tell her that yourself?” questioned the messenger.  
          “Huh?” Conner stopped, turned and looked up at the messenger, _really_ looked at her. Beneath the hat he saw dark skin, a mass of curly black hair and brown eyes—  
          "Vasari?” he questioned with surprise.  “What are you doing here?”  Ravinda Vasari had been a Ravenclaw prefect when Conner first started Hogwarts.  He’d had no idea what she had been up to since…  
          “Delivering messages,” she answered simply.  
          “He told you, too, didn’t he,” accused Conner suddenly.   
          “Told me what?”  Vasari’s expression reflected confusion.  
          “Where I live!” explained Conner.  “So much for security,” he muttered with growing anger.  
          “What do you mean?” Vasari questioned.  “He doesn’t know where you live…”  
          “Of course he does,” countered Conner.  “How else could he tell you?”  
          “But he didn’t.”  
          “So that auror did?” Conner accused darkly.  
          “Kind of…”  
          “Like I said, so much for security!”  He turned again to leave.  
          “Security is excellent,” came Vasari’s voice from behind him.  “I assure you I’ve told no one your location, not even Wizard Thomas!”  
          “Not even—” Abruptly Conner wheeled around with new comprehension.  _“You’re_ the auror?” he asked in disbelief.  
          Vasari nodded with a mischievous glint in her eyes.  “What? You expected some old geezer in wizard robes?”  
          “Uh, kind of,” admitted Conner.  
          “That’s just the line we let the Slytherins repeat!” she said dismissively.  “Keeps the Dark Wizards from taking us seriously!” she whispered conspiratorially. “I can’t tell you how pleased I was to hear you were thinking of becoming an auror,” continued Vasari cheerfully.  “We _need_ people like you!”  
          “Oh?”  Conner had never once indicated to Thomas he was thinking of becoming an auror.  Nor had he any intention of becoming one, but Vasari was talking too fast for him to correct her.  
          “Yes!  Wizards who can talk to the Muggles without them freaking out, who know the difference between an electric plug and the internet!  Do you realize Sir was hiding out in a Muggle village?  I had to go undercover to try to find him!  The auror I was with didn’t even know how to operate a vacuum cleaner!  The Muggle he was watching had to explain it to him!  How embarrassing is that?”  
          “You never caught Sir!” Conner reminded.  
          “Oh yes we did!” Vasari said proudly.  “And a sweet sting it was!” she told him.  “Right in the middle of a Muggle park!  I was there!”  
          “And he escaped!”  
          “Not my fault dementors don’t read animal shapes as humans,” Vasari told him.  “We’d have gotten him again if someone else hadn’t gotten to him first. ” Vasari paused and pushed up the brim of her hat enabling her to look at Conner directly. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she asked.  
          Conner felt his face warm as he stammered, “Uh, no…”  
          “Uh, huh!” said Vasari studying him critically.  “That’s what I thought.  Don’t ever try to lie around Thomas,” she advised.  “He’d read you in a minute!”  
          “Who built that holding cell Mrs. Crowley got out of after one night?” Conner questioned quickly not wanting her to dwell on Sir.  
          “Like Clarke would reveal herself while Mrs. Crowley remained inside?” countered Vasari.  “That was a good sting too!” she told Conner.  “Clarke never saw it coming!  So, are you really planning to move your family again or were you just venting?  I don’t think your family really wants to move and it’s such a nice cottage…”  
          “Uh…”  
          “Because if you do, I’d better show you how to fix your wards first…”  
          “What!?”  
          “Yes, you said you don’t want anyone following you if you move so I won’t be able to fix them later…”  
          “My wards are fine!” protested Conner indignantly.  
          “Yes, after I fixed them,” Vasari told him.  “Where did you learn it?  H2?”  
          “Yeah! sort of.”  The group had collectively decided wards would not be a successful defense within world totally controlled by the kidnappers.  In addition, they could stop students from finding each other in emergency situations.  But that did not stop Conner from doing some research on his own about wards while there.    
          “That’s what I figured.  It’s an indoor ward and doesn’t take into account weather, animals and unforeseen events like falling trees!”  
          “But the books never said it was an _indoor_ ward!” protested Conner.    
          “An indoor ward is the easiest to teach and is the first in any text,” informed Vasari.  "There are other wards more suited for the outdoors, but they are much more difficult to make.  You can modify the one you already know to make it more climate resistant. Let me show you.”  Vasari turned and headed in the direction of one of Conner’s wards.  Conner hastened to follow.  “I noted you put up a selective ward like we did during the Potions contest,” she said as they walked.  “Is that what you used outside?”    

          “Um no,” he answered.  “I wasn’t trying to keep out everyone! Just the Dark Wizards.”  
          “There’s no ward against Darkness.” Vasari told him firmly. “You need to stick to the general ward; a selective ward totally defeats your purpose.”  
          “But Dark Wizards are only S—”  
          “Slytherins?  That is a dangerous assumption.  The textbooks never mention houses and there’s a reason.  A Dark Wizard can come from any house—even yours!  Remember Pettigrew’s hand?”  
          Conner nodded.  
          “Peter Pettigrew was _Gryffindor!”_  
          “He was?”  
          “Yep!  Figure that one out!  Ah, here we are,” said Vasari stopping in front of one of Conner’s ward.  She pulled out her wand and proceeded to show Conner the modifications she had made and the ones he should do in the future…  “You should practice this a few times before you set them up for real,” she told him. “And be sure to renew your wards once a week after you set them up.  Daily when the weather is bad.  
           “O.K.”  
           “You do know that cutting yourself off from everyone is kind of risky,” she added in a more serious voice. “If something does go wrong there’s no one looking for you and no way to call for help.”  
          Conner sighed.  “I know,” he acknowledged remembering how good it felt when Albus had gone looking for him even when he (Conner) hadn’t wanted him to.  “But I don’t want what ha—” he broke off.  Even now it was still difficult to talk about. “I don’t want what happened to me to happen again.”  
          “It shouldn’t have happened to anyone,” Vasari said solemnly.  “And if we’re lucky, never again.”  Abruptly Vasari put her wand away, flipped the paper Conner had signed and started writing on the back. “Here’s my number,” she added while handing Conner the paper.  “Call me if you run into any problems.”  
          Conner looked down at the paper.  “That’s a cell phone number!” he said with surprise.  
          “Course it is,” agreed Vasari.  “My family’s Muggle too,” she told him, “and owls do _not_ work when you’re out shopping and mum has some last minute items to add to your grocery list.”   
          Conner laughed.  “That’s true,” he agreed. “Uh, you want my number?” he asked hesitantly.  
          “Text me,” Vasari said firmly making it clear continued contact was totally up to Conner.  “Well, I’ve got to be going,” Vasari added, “Good luck.”  She turned and started walking off.   
          “Wait a minute!” called Conner.  Vasari stopped and looked inquisitively back at him.  “Aren’t you going to give me some spiel about how I should take classes and become an auror?”  
          “You already know that,” she laughed.  “What you didn’t know was how to set the wards properly. And now you know that, too.  Call if you need anything else.”  Vasari turned and vanished with a loud _“crack!”_

*****


	20. Lucius Malfoy

          Lucius Malfoy stepped up to the huge doors of the Muggle structure.  He lifted his cane and rapped sharply on the door.  His cane was “spelled” to reverberate loudly at the lightest touch; the resulting noise of his “rap” caused the whole structure to shutter violently.   
          Without waiting for a response, Lucius aimed his wand and hissed _“Alohomora_.” Then he pushed the door open and stepped boldly in pushing aside the Muggle male dressed in black and white he found on the other side.  _“Immobulus!”_ Lucius commanded freezing the Muggle in place before the Muggle could even speak.  
          Yeah, Lucius knew he was supposed to be discrete around Muggles and hide their (wizard) existence, but Lucius didn’t really care at the moment.  All he wanted was to find Ivy.  He could deal with their memories later.  Usually Lucius never bothered.  The Muggles he generally dealt with knew better than to create problems later and if they didn’t, well, Lucius knew some spells to take care of that—ones that would escape Ministry notice.  Unfortunately, Potter knew about this one so he’d have to use a bit of restraint...   But Lucius intended to worry about that later.   
_“Immobulus!”_ Lucius commanded again freezing two Muggles, also dressed in black and white, running towards him.  
          “What is the meaning of this?” demanded a young man with brown hair (not dressed in black and white.) “How _dare_ you barge in like that!”  
          “I am here for my granddaughter!” Lucius demanded imperiously.   
          “Who are you? What are you doing here?” questioned a young lady as she came down some stairs and into view.  She had blonde hair swept up high on her head and wore a shiny blue gown.  
          “I am retrieving my granddaughter!” Lucius told her.  “Ivy?” he added while placing his wand at his throat to amplify his voice, “Come down here right now!” he ordered.  His words echoed throughout the building.  
          “Ivy!” protested the man.  “There’s no one here by that name!”   
          “Coming!” shouted a familiar voice.  Lucius felt his heart leap at the sound.  He looked up and was rewarded by the sight of Ivy bounding down the stairs!  Lucius breathed a sigh of relief.  Potter had sent Lucius the address without an explanation.  Lucius had gone to the location fairly confident Potter wouldn’t lie, but a part of him still worried it had been an elaborate trick of some sort. Another part had worried that Ivy wouldn’t be able to answer—that the Muggles had done something to her making it impossible for her to return a simple call.  
          Ivy skidded to a stop in front of Lucius.  “Grandfather,” she greeted formally.  “How are you?”  
          “Let’s go!” Lucius told her sternly while hiding the relief he felt.  Aside from that patch of white that covered her cheek and neck on one side, Ivy looked reasonably healthy.  Splinch? “Your mother has been worried!”  
          “Yes, sir,” Ivy answered dutifully.  “I’ll get my things!” she told Lucius.  Her eyes sparkled as she spoke.  She turned and headed back up the stairs.  
          “I suppose you think you are entitled to some sort of renumeration for your trouble,” began Lucius addressing the man.  
          “Don’t pay them a thing!” shouted Ivy from the stairs. “They invited me, _insisted_ , actually, no mention of money was ever made!”  
          “…You can forget it!” continued Lucius smoothly. “Consider yourself lucky I don’t have you arrested for kidnapping!”  
          “Kidnapping?!” exploded the man.  “You heard her!  She was _invited!”_  
          “Exactly!” agreed Lucius.  “But why?” he asked them bluntly.  “This is no charity hostel yet you _invited_ an unknown, unrelated _thirteen_ (Ivy would turn fourteen next week) year old child your house!  How many times have you done this before?  I should think the authorities will be very interested in learning about you and your ...  _activities.”_  
          “How  _dare_ you!” sputtered the lady.  
          “How  _dare_ you?!” he accused righteously.  “Haven’t you better things to do with your time?  You picked the wrong child for your dirty little schemes!” threatened Lucius. “You should pack your things and run while you can!” he advised.  “Because, when I return…” Lucius had no intention of returning.  He not only had no idea what the two were up to but did not particularly care, as long as it did not involve Ivy. Making threats, however, kept the two distracted while Ivy got her things.  It did seem to be taking her an extraordinarily long time.  Ivy had supposedly _walked_ away from that other place.  Without a wand, she couldn’t have taken much with her. How much could she have accumulated since then?  
          A motion overhead alerted Lucius to Ivy’s return. A white cloth bag was slung over her shoulder and a slender emerald green bag decorated with a what looked to be a Muggle version of gold dragon hung from her other.  Ivy stepped quickly down the stairs.   
          “What do you think you’re doing?” squealed the lady. “Those are _my_ things!”  
          Ivy froze mid-step.  “B-but you _said_ I could have them!” she blubbered.  Lucius recognized the tone as the one Ivy often used to get Narcissa to do what Ivy wanted. “You _gave_ them to me them so I wouldn’t have to go to London to get my own...  So I would have more time to tell you about the Smythes….  
_“Smythes?”_  
          “And I did!” insisted Ivy.  “I told you all about them! Just like you wanted.  Grandfather,” Ivy added turning towards Lucius.  “Don’t let her take my things away!”   
          “Of course not,” assured Lucius.  “No doubt they have plenty more or they wouldn’t have given such things to you in the first place...  Come along, dear,” Lucius told Ivy.  She smiled that little victory smile of hers and continued down the stairs.    
          “You take _her_ word over ours?” questioned the man.  
          “Of course,” answered Lucius. “She _is_ my granddaughter, after all,” he reminded. “And I know her ways.  But, frankly, to do otherwise would call into question the validity of whatever she told you about the Smythes.”  Lucius had his doubts about that.  Ivy was too smug; she had been up to something, he was certain. Ivy reached the bottom of the steps and walked up towards Lucius.  
          “No!” exploded the lady.  She reached out and tried to snatch the green bag from Ivy as she passed.  
_“Immobulus!”_ Lucius commanded sharply freezing the lady in place with his wand.  “Don’t you _dare_ touch my granddaughter!” he told her.  
          “What did you just do!” asked the man with an edge of panic to his voice.   
          “What I shall do to you if you attempt to interfere,” answered Lucius calmly.  Interesting how the Muggle man hadn’t expressed any concern for the Muggles in uniform that stood frozen in place about them.  Lucius pulled out his handkerchief and laid it flat on the floor.  _“Engorgo!”_ he commanded while waving his wand.  It grew to a square meter in size.   
          “How’d you do that?” demanded the man.  
          Lucius ignored him.  “Ivy, dear,” Lucius began.  “I do not believe that is your pillowcase.” She looked guiltily at the white bag on her back holding her “things.”  “You need to leave it behind.”  
          “Yes, sir,” she said obediently.  Ivy swung the bag around off her back.  Then she opened it and dropped the contents on the enlarged handkerchief.  It looked like mostly clothing and some small brightly coloured containers.  Lucius watched the man closely while Ivy tossed the pillowcase on the floor and then gathered up the ends of the handkerchief and tied them into a knot certain he would protest should the contents contain anything that wasn’t Ivy’s.  That was doubtful.  They were giving her things; Ivy had no need to steal.   
          Ivy lifted the knotted handkerchief.  She frowned.  “This is awkward to carry,” Ivy complained.  “Will you?” she asked hopefully batting her eyelids at Lucius.   
          “No,” said Lucius flatly.  “Carry your own souvenirs.”  
          “But, the pillowcase worked so much better.  We could always return it later…” she suggested.  
          “We’re not returning,” Lucius informed her.  
          “You could buy it…”  
          “Buy it yourself!” Lucius snapped letting the irritation he’d felt at all the trouble she’d caused them show through.  
          “But I haven’t any money,” she wailed.  
          “Exactly.  Next time don’t be so greedy,” he chastised.  “Either carry it yourself or leave those things behind.”  Lucius had little interest in having Muggle-made stuff in his home.  “Come along,” Lucius told her briskly.  He turned and took two steps towards the door.  Then Lucius paused and looked at Ivy expectantly.  She pouted, but lifted the knotted handkerchief bag and walked forward.  The two continued on toward the door.  
          “What about Vanessa?” the Muggle man questioned as they walked.   
          “She’ll thaw out,” Lucius assured.  “Eventually.” They reached the door.   
          “You can do other stuff too, can’t you?” asked the Muggle.  Lucius ignored him.  He aimed his wand and caused the door to open in front of him.  Lucius stood aside letting Ivy go through the doorway first. Then Lucius followed.  “Like dripping ink?” persisted Muggle as Lucius stepped over the threshold.   
          Lucius paused.  School pranks, why would the Muggle ever think of that?  But he didn’t answer.  Muggles were beneath his notice or interest.  Lucius stepped outside and closed the huge doors behind him.

*****

          Five stern-faced wizards in Ministry robes stood outside the front doors with wands extended!  _Busted!_    
          Lucius couldn’t begin to describe the shock, outrage and … _betrayal_ … he suddenly felt. The only way the Ministry would be here would be if Potter had told them!  Why had Potter done that?  Sure, Lucius had worried if Potter had told the truth concerning Ivy’s whereabouts, but he never considered this!   
          Four of the wizards walked towards Lucius, one a bit ahead of the others.  They stopped when the lead wizard was about two meters away.  Lucius’ wand was already drawn.  His first instinct was to Apparate out!  Lucius could have done it easily, except that would leave Ivy behind. Ivy had been splinched; she couldn’t Apparate again until she had been properly healed.  Lucius would not leave Ivy behind to face the Ministry alone…   
          He looked up and about casting for ways to keep her safe.  The limo was still parked outside where Lucius had left it, waiting to take the two of them back to his mansion.  Behind it stood the insolent, arrogant figure of Harry Potter.  Here to watch Lucius’ downfall.  He’d deal with Potter later!  
          “Miss Malfoy,” the lead wizard began addressing Ivy and giving her a short courteous bow.  “Wizard Malfoy,” he continued addressing Lucius in a pleasant, respectful voice.  “I’m Wizard Tuttle of the Office of Misinformation. “If you would step aside, I believe we have some business inside.”  
          “Get in the limo, dear,” Lucius told Ivy while ignoring Tuttle and his wand.  Not even an Office Head!  How demeaning!  
          “What?” she questioned.   
          “Get in the limo and tell the chauffeur to take you home while I take care of this.”  
          “But—”  
_“Now!”_ he ordered.  Lucius could see the worry on her face.  “It’ll be all right,” he assured in a soothing voice, “now go!” Ivy lifted her bag and began to walk. The other three wizards stepped forward blocking her way.  They looked questioningly at Tuttle.  “You would arrest me in front of my granddaughter?” Lucius questioned in a low voice.  To his relief, Tuttle nodded to the others and they stepped aside making an opening and let her pass.  Then they closed ranks surrounding him again.   
          “If you would step aside,” repeated Tuttle politely but Lucius did not move.   
          He watched Ivy walk up to the limo.  She handed her handkerchief bag to the chauffeur and waited while he stowed it in the boot.  Then she got in.  The chauffeur closed the door and then leaned casually against the front door clearly waiting for Lucius.  Why? Had Ivy not given the order or was something else at play?  Lucius turned to Tuttle. “Let her _go!”_ he insisted.  
          Tuttle stepped even closer.  “She stays,” he told Lucius firmly.  “No arrests have been made,” Tuttle reminded.  “Now, step aside,” he commanded.  Then added, “Would you have your granddaughter see you _taken_ _down_ so we could get in?”  
          Lucius sighed and reluctantly moved away from the door.  He could not win in a fight against four wizards.  He could always Apparate and leave, of course, but he would not leave without Ivy.  
          “Thank you,” said Tuttle calmly.  He pointed his wand at the doors.  They swung open.  The three other wizards moved past Lucius into the house.  “Wait here until we finish,” Tuttle ordered and then went into the building as well, closing the doors behind him. 

*****


	21. Lucius Malfoy

          Lucius Malfoy considered his next move.  There was no way to hide the fact that he’d broken numerous wizard laws concerning the performance of magic in front of Muggles. He could deny everything, but it wasn’t likely he’d be believed.  He could accuse someone else, but who?  Ivy hadn’t a wand and no one would believe another wizard was present…  Still, Lucius did not wish to face charges or punishment for his deeds.  They hadn’t taken his wand.  He could easily Apparate and hide but he wouldn’t leave without Ivy.  What would they do to her if he wasn’t there to take the blame?    
          Things would be much easier without Ivy.  She needed to leave.  Lucius stepped forward.  The fifth Ministry Wizard raised his wand and pointed it at Lucius. Lucius ignored it stepped briskly to the chauffeur.  The chauffeur hastily stood at attention.  “Open the door,” Lucius commanded.   
         “Sorry, sir,” answered the chauffeur in a regretful voice, “but I can’t do tha’.” He glanced at the Ministry Wizard, whose wand was now pointed at both, as he spoke.  
          “Then I _order_ you to take Miss Malfoy to our home!”  
          “Can’t do tha’ either,” informed the chauffeur. “I’d lose me license!” he explained apologetically.  The chauffeur stepped closer to Lucius and added, “But it’ll take a proper warran’ befir I’ll open that limo fir any but you!” he promised confidentially. “She’ll be safe no matter what!”  
          Lucius was not reassured.  He couldn’t leave without insuring the safety of Ivy, free from Ministry clutches.  _Potter!_   Surely his hatred of Lucius didn’t extend to Ivy.  Was there a way to persuade Potter to take Ivy away?  What tactic would work best? Threats? That had worked with Pettigrew’s hand...  Bribery? Not Potter.  Appeal to his sense chivalry?  No! Potter had none—else he wouldn’t have called in the Ministry in the first place.  Calling in a favour?  That might work.  He _had_ helped with Wycliff…  If Potter refused, Lucius could always threaten to tell the Ministry what he had done at Potter’s request...  If he couldn’t escape, then at least Potter would go down with him.  
          Lucius moved around the limo over to Potter.  Potter noted his arrival without comment.  He straightened and looked at Lucius. “Was this your plan all along?” began Lucius in a low voice.  “I knew you hated me, Potter, but to use Ivy for your revenge—that’s lower than low!”   
          Potter’s brow frowned in apparent confusion. “What do you mean?”  
          “I mean involving the Ministry!”  
          “Huh?”  
          “You did call the Ministry, didn’t you?” Lucius accused.  
          Potter’s eyes narrowed, “Yeah,” he agreed.  “So?”  
          “Our business was _private!”_ Lucius hissed angrily.  “And should have stayed that way!  Now they are holding Ivy.”  
          “What do you mean?” questioned Potter.  “They’re not holding her; she’s in the limo.”   
          “And they won’t let her leave,” snapped Lucius. “Soon they’ll be hauling us _both_ off to Azkaban!”  
          “Azkaban!  Whatever for? You haven’t done anything have you?”  
          “Of course not!” snapped Lucius.  A few Muggle freezes didn’t count.  “But that will not stop them!”  
          “What do you mean?”  
          “There’s four wizards in there right now,” he reminded while looking over to the house, “who will _fabricate_ whatever they want to send us _both_ to Azkaban!”    
          “No!” argued Potter.  “They wouldn’t do that!”  
          “To destroy me, destroy us, destroy the Malfoy name, of course they would!”  Lucius assured with conviction.  Potter had kept them out of Azkaban but that was it; he was no “friend.”  Lucius had many enemies.  They lurked in the shadows like vultures feeding off their defeat. But the family was finally emerging from the shame of the Dark Lord’s defeat.  Lucius could easily imagine Potter uniting with his other enemies determined to keep them down.   
          The front doors opened. Lucius turned at the sound. “Get Ivy out of here!” Lucius told Potter quickly.  “Protect her from whatever’s coming!  You _owe_ me!”  
          The four wizards came out with Tuttle in the lead. Lucius clutched his wand tightly and aimed it at Tuttle.   
          “No!” said Potter sharply bringing his hand down on Lucius’ wrist wrecking his aim. So much for Potter’s help.  
          The three wizards in back waived their wands and Apparated disappearing from sight.  Tuttle continued forward.  He stopped next to the chauffeur and spoke briefly.  Then he continued on stopping in front of Lucius.  
          “Right,” he said in a professional tone.  “It’s fairly obvious Miss Malfoy did not force herself into the Montague household.  That makes it a situation of unavoidable Muggle Interaction.  Of course, should she ever return, we would view it quite differently. Then it would be considered a clear case of deliberate Muggle Harassment punishable to the full extent of the law, including Azkaban, as it would be interpreted as a _second_ offense.  You _will_ make that clear to Miss Malfoy, won’t you?”  
          “Uh, yeah,” said Lucius disconcerted.  What was going on?  
          “Thank you,” continued Tuttle.  “I’d be telling her myself but the chauffeur,” he glanced briefly at the chauffeur and then looked back at Lucius, “refuses to open the door…   No matter. We’ve modified the memories of everyone in the household so they will not remember anything, uh, magical, Miss Malfoy, or her visit so there’s no point in a return visit, unless it’s deliberate harassment.  Nice freeze charm, by the way,” he added as an aside, “Light, minimal side effects. What’d you use?”  Lucius stared at him in disbelief.  Tuttle shrugged and continued.  “We’re warding the place as well, just in case.  Should you or Miss Malfoy or anyone at your instigation ever return we shall _know_ and act accordingly.  Is that clear?”  
          “Yes.”  As improbably as it seemed, it sounded as if they weren’t going to do anything…  
          “Miss Malfoy is now on our watch list,” Tuttle informed Lucius.  “While she did not use any _magic_ to make those _expensive_ acquisitions, that may not be the case during future Muggle encounters.  We will be checking closely should her name surface in future incidences of Muggle Abuse or Exploitation...   Now about Miss Malfoy’s initial presence outside the Muggle community,” continued Tuttle sternly.   
          “Surely a case of simple underaged magic,” put in Lucius disarmingly as he lowered his wand.  There was no need to make a rapid exit, no need for a magic battle; Ivy was no longer a hostage for his behavior… Time to mitigate.  
          “I agree,” stated Tuttle.  “However, given what happened, it’s obvious Miss Malfoy needs stricter supervision…  The rules are very clear about wand usage while not at Hogwarts and the consequences for repeat offenders is severe.  I recommend you not replace Miss Malfoy’s wand until the end of summer at the very least, but perhaps you can think of something more _persuasive_...  At any rate, should this happen again, I shall not be informing the staff at Hogwarts but reporting you and her parents to Child Services for Child Neglect.”  
           “That will not be necessary,” assured Lucius smoothly, “Ivy will not be repeating her mistakes.”  At least not where the Ministry would find out.   
          “I’m glad to hear that,” replied Tuttle.  A loud _crack_ signaled the return of the other four wizards.  Tuttle looked at them.  “Time for me to go,” he told Lucius.  “Mr. Malfoy, Harry,” he said tipping an imaginary hat. “Have a good day.” He walked over to the other wizards. They all waved their wands and Apparated leaving Lucius alone with Potter.  (The chauffeur didn’t count.)  

*****

 _Harry?_   Lucius Malfoy turned to Potter for further explanation.  What was really going on?  
          Potter looked pointedly away.  No, he was looking at the limo, specifically where Ivy had gotten in.   
          Lucius waited.  
          Finally, Potter spoke.  “What would you say the odds were of Ivy encountering two Muggles who had already had a … history … of magical encounters?  
          Lucius looked at Potter blankly.  “What? Uh, I don’t know…”  
          “I don’t know either,” agreed Potter.  “But it sounded like more than a coincidence to me. That’s why I contacted Wizard Tuttle of the Office of Misinformationand requested a Memory Modification.  
          “A what?”  
          “A Memory Modification,” replied Potter.  “You know, like what they did after Pettigrew blew up the street to frame Sirius.  You can request one when a specific Muggle has had a history of previous magical interactions…”  
_You could do that?_   “And you requested one?” questioned Lucius in disbelief.  Who else had the Montagues encountered? How?  The reference to dripping ink took on new meaning.  
          “Yeah.  I suggested they come after you removed Ivy so they could erase all memory of Ivy and whatever she had said or done too…  Freeze charm?” Potter questioned with interest.  
          “They were reluctant to, ah, see, Ivy leave…” explained Lucius dismissively.  “What about the Smythes?” Lucius questioned changing the topic.  Ivy had mentioned them.  Lucius guessed they were the ones who had originally found Ivy.  How else would Ivy know about them?  “Are they warded too?”  
          There was a long silence before Potter answered.  “No,” Potter admitted.  “There was no magical encounter there,” he added by way of explanation. “But, I would appreciate it if you did not tell Ivy that,” he added softly. “They would not welcome a return visit…”  
          “Hmm.”  It suddenly occurred to Lucius that Potter had a connection to these people more than that of a “good Samaritan.”  How else would Potter know about additional magical encounters?   
          Lucius pocketed his wand. “In that case, perhaps you could make a delivery for me,” Lucius began as he removed one of the rings from his finger, a 6 carat square cut dark green emerald flanked by four diamonds, two on each side, set in solid gold. “It cannot have been easy to arrange for a Muggle Healer to privately care for Ivy…” Lucius continued imperiously.  He held the ring out to Potter. “Perhaps this would help cover the cost.  I trust you can get it to the Smythes and convey with it our _appreciation?”_    
          Lucius hated dealing with Muggles.  Not that he ever would, but the thought of saying “thank-you” to a Muggle was positively odious.  Being in a situation where his family was _actually_ indebted to a Muggle was equally unacceptable.  With Potter to act as middleman, debts could be paid without contact or loss of dignity.   
          Potter looked from the ring to Lucius’ face studying him intently. Then Potter nodded slowly and removed the ring from Lucius’ hand confirming the Smythes had indeed taken Ivy in. “I’ll get this to them,” he told Lucius while placing the ring in his pocket.   
          Lucius smiled.  “You do that,” Lucius told Potter with satisfaction.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a granddaughter to escort home…” Without waiting for a reply, Lucius stepped away from Potter and turned to the chauffeur.  The chauffeur immediately stood at attention as Lucius neared.  “I’m leaving,” he told the chauffeur imperiously.   
          “Yes, sir,” the chauffeur replied.  He bowed respectfully and then opened the limo door.  
          “Is everything O.K.?” asked Ivy worriedly as Lucius got in.  
          “Of course,” assured Lucius.  “I told you it would be…”

*****


	22. Olivia

          “I apologize for my words the other day,” Olivia said solemnly. “I realize they offended you; it will not happen again.” It was Olivia’s best apology voice.  She had planned out and practiced her words in advance so she wouldn’t forget and to insure an appropriate sincere looking expression, just as Anthony Richards had taught her.  
          “Go away!” said DeWitt not even bothering to look up from his girlie magazine.  
          Olivia left.  Olivia hadn’t heard a word out of DeWitt when he had disarmed her; he had to be very good at silent spells.  It was not a good idea to anger him.

*****


	23. Ivy

          “No,” moaned Ivy.  “Don’t take them!  No!” she turned restlessly in her sleep and moaned some more.  
          “I don’t like it,” protested Draco in a whisper.  “Must you torture her so?”  He stood next to his father right outside Ivy’s bedroom.  
          “Yes,” replied Lucius Malfoy firmly as they watched Ivy turn yet again.   
          “But, she’s so young!”  
          “Not so young to do what she did,” insisted Lucius.   
          “But you go too far! This is too much!” protested Draco.  
          Lucius aimed his wand at Ivy and silently said a new spell.  
          “No! Don’t leave me alone!  Alone!” she sobbed loudly.  “All alone!”  
          “Surely this is enough!” Draco begged.  
          “She is not repentant,” Lucius reminded his son.  “Ivy has broken the rules and there are consequences to her actions, serious consequences.”   
          “No! You can’t!” moaned Ivy.  “I’m sooo hungry…”  
          “If she is not stopped, not persuaded to turn her attentions elsewhere, Ivy will do it again and _not_ by accident!”  Lucius told Draco.  “The Ministry takes a dim view of Muggle Meddling.”  
          “The Ministry is an inconvenience that must be tolerated,” retorted Draco. “Who cares what it thinks!”  
          “The Ministry controls Azkaban!” reminded Lucius.  He lifted his wand.  “That’s enough for tonight, I think.” he told his son. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”  
          “Tomorrow night!” exploded Draco.  “Surely this is enough!”  
          “It is enough when I am sure Ivy will not pursue this course of actions,” replied Lucius coldly.  “She has a record now!” he reminded Draco.  “If Ivy does not stop, is not careful, she will cross the line and the Ministry will _crucify_ her!  I will _not_ have my granddaughter go through what I did at Azkaban.  I will _not_ have our families suffer again as we did after Azkaban!”  Lucius turned back to Ivy.  She had stopped twisting and turning in her bed.  She would sleep dreamlessly now.  
          “How long will you do this to her?” questioned Draco.  
          “Until I am sure she is safe,” replied Lucius.  He stepped quietly forward and gently pulled the covers over Ivy’s shoulders.  
          “I used to have nightmares once,” said Draco softly as Ivy’s hand reached out and grabbed the edge of the covers. Ivy twisted once more bringing the covers with her. “Bad ones!”   
          “I know,” agreed Lucius quietly.  He turned and stepped out of Ivy’s room.   
          Draco followed.  “Did you?” he asked hesitantly.  “Did you do that to me?”  
          Lucius took a deep breath.  Perhaps it was time….  “I found the luggage,” Lucius said softly.  
          “Luggage?”  
          “From the Express,” explained Lucius.  It had been big news at the time; all the luggage from the Hogwarts Express had vanished.  There was no evidence, but Dark Lord supporters were blamed and the Ministry hauled in every known surviving associate for interrogation to find the luggage, everyone but the Malfoys.   
          It was demeaning to think they owed their freedom to Potter, but Lucius was not one to refuse an advantage once offered.  Lucius had piously denied all knowledge of the missing luggage and refused to let himself or his family be interrogated like “common criminals.”  He insisted the interrogators “check” with _Potter_ before continuing…   No one dared bother the “great” Harry Potter, which was fortunate.  Had they done so, Lucius knew Potter would have not objected to an interrogation of the Malfoys.  He might have even encouraged it.  
          “You would have been caught,” Lucius told Draco, “I could not let that happen.  I could not let you ruin it for us all.  So I destroyed every piece rather than risk any of it getting traced back to you.  I sent you that blackmail note too, and let you think more were coming so you wouldn’t try anything else…” Draco had stolen from the family vault to pay the blackmail, but had put a tracking spell on the payment so the entire amount had to be destroyed…   Blackmail alone would not stop him.  Then Narcissa overheard Draco making more plans to disrupt the Wizard community.  Lucius had to do something more permanent to keep his family safe.   
          “Yours was a lost cause,” Lucius continued aloud.  “The Dark Lord was dead; our friends and associates were dead or in Azkaban; but we were free; we had a chance at life; you would have destroyed all of that.  You … wouldn’t … let … go!”  He turned and faced Draco.  
          “Yes, I gave you dreams, my memories of the horrors of Azkaban,” Lucius told Draco.  “Things you would face if you did not change your ways.  Better that than the real thing!”  
          “You _tortured_ me!” exclaimed Draco angrily.  
          “I did what was necessary,” retorted Lucius.  “I made sure you did not destroy your life and take us down with you!  And then you met Julienne,” Lucius added softly.  Julienne was a recent Beaubaxton graduate on holiday in London shopping in Diagon Alley where she first caught Draco’s eye.  She saw the handsome dashing Draco that he could be when he wasn’t brooding and fixated on the Dark Lord.   
          “Julienne chased away the nightmares,” whispered Draco in remembrance.  
          “Yes,” agreed Lucius softly.  More accurately, Lucius couldn’t sneak close enough to continue giving Draco nightmares when Julienne was around.  Not that Lucius tried too hard.  Julienne was from an old wizard family, French though it was. She knew nothing of the Dark Lord’s war and cared even less whether Draco once supported him. Her father had, but Lucius was able to reassure him that their part in all that was over… “And then you thought about the future instead of the past,” Lucius told Draco.  Crisis averted.  “And now you have two beautiful children with futures of their own,” he reminded Draco. “I want you to bring Ivy over tomorrow afternoon,” Lucius added, “at one.”  That should give Ivy enough time to sleep in and recover from her nightmares.  
          “Why?” asked Draco suspiciously. “Haven’t you done enough?”  
          “Not nearly,” replied Lucius.  “Ivy Apparated!” he reminded Draco proudly.  “She’s only thirteen! That’s never been done before! No other witch or wizard has been able to do that ever!” Lucius repeated for emphasis.  “Our Ivy is a rare gem.  But she needs proper training.  Her last Apparation was a sloppy job,” Lucius criticized.  “She got Splinched, crashed into a Muggle transport and became dependent upon Muggle _charity_ to survive!  Worse, she lost her _wand!_   Have you any idea what I went through to get it back?”  Not much at all, actually, but there was no need for Draco to know that.   
          Upon reflection, Lucius decided the return of the wand had come too easily.  Lucius could not believe Potter was that noble, that he would willingly give up something so valuable as a wand without a price attached. That was why Lucius had made his way into a Muggle library to learn more.  Just because he hated dealing with Muggles didn’t mean he couldn’t. The Muggle library was filled with rectangles on the tables much like the slim silver thing with hinges Ivy had brought back.  The Muggle librarian readily showed him how to turn one on and do a bit of research...   
          There was nothing but a bunch of boring society photos of the Montagues, but the Smythes... Lucius found a photo of one Gregory Smythe at a Debutante Ball.  Seated next to him was a young lady who looked exactly like Holly Wycliff!  That explained a lot.  No wonder Potter wanted to keep things quiet.  Rita would have paid a fortune to learn about Gregory Smythe. But she had withdrawn her bounty, so Lucius would keep Potter’s secret, for now.   
          “Well, it was her first time…” replied Draco dismissively.  
          “True,” agreed Lucius, “but it won’t be her last.  Ivy needs to learn how to Apparate safely!”  
          “But she’s not supposed to use her wand during the summer,” reminded Draco.  
          “That’s why you and I will be teaching her privately,” replied Lucius.  “At my mansion, where’s there’s plenty of place to practice and her magic use will go unnoticed by the Ministry.” That was why there had been no magic notification when she had Apparated the last time.  “By the time we finish, Ivy will be able to Apparate anywhere and anytime perfectly without embarrassing herself or us.”

*****


	24. Holly

          “Hey Greg, are you ready for the opera?” came the voice of Jane Smith over the phone.  
          “Huh?” answered Gregory Smythe in disbelief.  He didn’t remember any opera.  “Uh, what opera?” he questioned.  
          “The one we’re going to tonight.  I hear it’s really good,” she answered cheerfully.  
          “Uh, I don’t remember any opera,” Greg said cautiously. The last time he’d spoke to Jane was when he learned Roxy’s location from one of Montague’s employees.  There hadn’t been any discussion of future opera.  
          “Course not!” answered Jane, “but our last opera together was a real bust so I figured you owed me!”  
          “Uh, I haven’t got any tickets,” stalled Greg.  Did she really expect to go to an opera?  
          “I know,” agreed Jane.  “But Cousin Harry got a couple of tickets to Aieda so we’re on for tonight!”  
          “Aieda!” exclaimed Greg.  “I heard that was sold out ages ago!”   
          “Guess there was a cancellation!” answered Jane blithely.   
          “Yeah,” said Greg dubiously remembering that Jane’s cousin was a friend of a friend who supposedly had the PM’s ear...  
          “I’ll be by in fifteen minutes!” Jane told him.  “Uh, is your father home?” she asked in a more hesitant voice.  
          “Yes.”  
          “I’d like to see him for a few minutes before we go if he’s free.”  
          “Sure,” replied Greg.  “I’ll let him know…”

*****

          “It’s so good to see you again,” greeted Jane cheerfully while holding out a hand to Gregory Smythe’s father.  Greg’s father lifted it and touched her fingers to his lips in a formal courtly bow.  Jane was dressed in a long violet opera gown with a dark purple waist band trimmed with matching purple roses on each shoulder and at the waist.  It looked very good on her.  Small diamonds adorned her ears and a tiny silver heart-shaped pendant hung from her neck.  Jane also wore violet elbow-length opera gloves and carried a small black clutch bag. Her hair was swept up in some sort of bun and that single braid she always had was twisted around the bun somehow.  
          “It is good to see you, too,” agreed father, but not quite as warmly.  Greg knew he had only met Jane once before so was probably not too comfortable in her presence.  “You wanted to see me?”  
          “Yes,” replied Jane.  She took a deep breath and said, “I wanted to let you know that Roxy Maloy has connected with her family and is now safely home.”  
          Greg breathed a sigh of relief.  He’d been worried.  Roxy had seemed so naïve; things could have gone bad for her—especially at the Montagues. While no one knew who she was, one of the Montague employees recognized the girl from the photos Greg had distributed..  
          Greg’s father nodded but he still looked worried.  
          “Also,” continued Jane, “I have this.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a tiny black box and handed it to father.  He looked at it curiously.  Greg looked too.  There were no markings on the box.  Father opened it.  Inside was a gold ring.  Not just any ring, but what looked to be a very expensive gold ring with an emerald in the center and diamonds on either side.  “It’s a “thank-you,” explained Jane. “Roxy’s family was very appreciative of the time and care you gave her,” continued Jane while father removed the ring from the box.  “They hope this will help compensate you for your efforts.”   
          “More than compensate,” murmured father while he turned the ring over in his fingers.  
          “They were _very_ appreciative,” added Jane.  “But they do have a request.”  Father stiffened in anticipation.  “They want to consider this incident closed,” she began, “and request that you and your family never, ever mention Roxy and what happened this last month to anyone, ever!”  
          “What?”  
          Greg could see the surprise in father’s eyes.  
          “Well, you see, Roxy was apparently out with her friends with a homemade trampoline of some sort jumping about and, um, she kind of jumped off and into the road… It was some sort of a _dare_ , actually,” continued Jane.  “Her friends saw what happened and took off abandoning Roxy in the road.  If Greg hadn’t been there to help who knows what would have happened to Roxy.  The family’s terribly embarrassed about what she did and don’t want her actions to get out; it would ruin them!”  
          “I think we can manage that,” said father slowly.  Greg could almost see the relief wash over him. He knew father had been worried about the publicity or blackmail attempts.  
          “That’s terrific,” said Jane brightly.  “Feel free to wear the ring or sell it,” she added.  “And if anyone asks you about it, just say the ring’s a family heirloom—for it is—just not yours.”  She reached again into her bag, “And this is for you,” Jane added turning to Greg with another small black box in her hand.  “It’s from Roxy.  She said to tell you she’s terribly sorry for all the trouble she caused and hope you’ll forgive her…” Greg opened the box; inside were two cufflinks—a small faceted dark blue stone (sapphire?) with a tiny diamond on either side, set in gold. “I understand Roxy picked it out herself,” added Jane.  
          “So, you see, it wasn’t Greg’s fault at all,” Jane continued brightly addressing father as Greg examined the cufflinks.  “He wasn’t drinking or doing drugs,” she informed him. “He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, or, rather, at the right place, for who knows what would have happened to Roxy if he hadn’t been there… Anyway, it’s all over; Roxy is back home and you don’t need to worry about her ever again.”  There was this silence.  Jane looked from father to Greg and back to father.  “I, uh, just wanted to let you know…” she added in a more uncertain tone.  
          “And we thank you,” put in father grandly.  He was again his usual confident proud self. “You can let the Maloys know that we have no interest in embarrassing them so we’ll not mention this incident ever again…”  
          “That’s good,” answered Jane smiling again.  “And now, well, we have a opera to catch so, Greg, if you’re ready…”  
          “Uh, sure,” answered Greg. “Just let me get my jacket!”

*****

          “You really are a lousy liar!” Greg told Holly Wycliff as they walked to the limo.  
          Holly sighed.  “Yeah, that’s what they all tell me,” she acknowledged.  “But I hope your father believed me, at least the important parts,” she amended.  “They were true.”  They reached the limo; Rupert stood at attention and opened the back door.  
          “The important parts?”   
          “Yeah, that this was not your fault and that he need never worry about Roxy again…” Holly got in the limo, sat down and slid over to make room for Greg.  
          “I know he wants to believe that, so maybe he will,” replied Greg hopefully.  Greg sat down and Rupert closed the door.  “So, what really happened?”  
          “What do you mean?”  
          “I was there,” Greg reminded.  “There was no trampoline!”  
          “Don’t tell your father that!” Holly hastily told him as the limo took off.  
          “So, what _really_ happened?” Greg persisted.  
          “Nothing I can tell you,” Holly told him.  “Just that I-Roxy was not where she should be and did something very dangerous and very stupid.  She’s really lucky to be alive and none of it was your fault!” she assured.  
          “And the Montagues?”  
          Holly drew in a deep breath.  “They don’t know you know about Roxy being there,” she reminded him. “It’s got to stay that way to protect the person who told you…  It would be best if you pretended nothing ever happened…”  
          “I will,” Greg promised. He didn’t want the chauffeur who tweeted Roxy’s location to get in trouble.  “But what _did_ happen?”  
          “Nothing much,” Holly told him.  “Cousin Harry gave the address of Roxy’s location to her family. I wasn’t there, of course, but I understand Roxy’s grandfather came over in a limo and took Roxy home.”  There was more.  Mr. Tuttle had interviewed Holly extensively about the Montagues’ previous magical encounters so he would know which other memories to modify.  There was further discussion about whether Mrs. Montague’s attempt to frame Kenny, which resulted in the discovery of Holly’s wand, also constituted a magical encounter…  “If the Montagues ever bother you or if you see Roxy again, I want you to tell me immediately,” Holly added aloud.  
          “Even if you’re at school?”  
          “Well,” she amended, “I’ll leave my phone with my brother. Tell him and he’ll pass the word on.”  
          “O.K.,” he agreed.  
          “Terrific.  Oh, and if you see the Montagues socially, pretend you don’t know them.”  
          “Really?”  
          “Yeah,” confirmed Holly.  “I wasn’t there of course, so don’t know what kind of an arrangement they made, but I guarantee if you ignore them, they’ll ignore you.”  
          “I can handle that,”  
          “Me too,” agreed Holly.  Holly wasn’t sure what all Wizard Tuttle had done, but she had the impression that the Montagues were out of their lives forever.  “In the meantime, what do you think of sushi?”  
          “Uh, I don’t know, I’ve never tried it before,” answered Greg honestly.  
          “Me neither.  But I heard a new sushi bar opened near the opera hall.  Want to try it after the show?”   
          “O.K…”

*****


	25. Olivia/Anthony

          “Thank you for helping me with the receipts,” said Olivia O’Shea softly.  “You know, back after Wizard Rosier was angry at me.  The words felt alien on her tongue.  The first time Olivia had ever tried saying “thank you,” was after Anthony Richards had mentioned that the other students seemed to value, “Thank you” almost as much as an apology.  He said that, like an apology, the words cost nothing to say but could elicit a favorable response from the recipient.  So, Olivia said, “Thank you,” to Anthony.  He laughed and said “I can see we still need to work on your sincerity. Say it again after dinner.  It works better when you actually mean it.” But of course, Olivia hadn’t; she’d paid well for his services.  Today, Olivia decided to give the words another try.  She really wanted the receipts explained and was running out of options.  
          DeWitt looked up from his girlie magazine, glanced briefly at Olivia and returned his attention to his magazine.  At least he hadn’t told her to leave.  
          “Can I ask you something?” Olivia persisted.   
          “What?” he asked without looking up.  
          “The receipts!  They don’t add up right!  What’s going on?”  
          DeWitt lifted his head and looked at Olivia without speaking.  
          “Please?” she added hopefully.  As inexpensive as an apology, Anthony Richards had said the other houses valued that word too…  
          DeWitt sighed.  “Bring them here,” he told her as he closed his magazine.  
          Olivia hurried to the counter and quickly returned with a handful of receipts.  “Like this one!” she said shoving the receipt under DeWitt’s nose before he could change his mind.  “Even I can tell the total is less than the items purchased!”  The customer had only bought one item.  Olivia had written the customer’s name and then the item purchased. The regular amount had appeared by the item, but a smaller number appeared beneath it on the “amount due” line.   
          “Hmmm, get your shop quill,” DeWitt instructed.  
          Olivia did so and handed him the green ostrich quill. DeWitt took the tip of the fluffy quill and traced the “G” in “Gold” on the top of the receipt.  When he finished, some new words appeared on the receipt right above the “amount due” line.   
          “Customer loyalty discount?” question Olivia as she read the words.  
          “Yes, those are the people who watch their knuts, know the Green and Gold is pricy, yet they still shop here.  They also know how much each item should cost and are always pleasantly surprised to discover you ask for less than the actual price... They keep coming back to see if you’ll do it again…”  
          “What about this one?” asked Olivia pulling out another receipt. “It’s way more than even a _Stupidity_ charge!”  
          DeWitt again traced the “G” on the top of the receipt. More writing appeared on the receipt.   
          “Spidersilk scarf?” questioned Olivia as she read the receipt. “She never bought one!”  
          “See the “S” next to it?  That means she took it!”  
          “Took it?  She never did that!”  
          “That you noticed.  Mrs. Parkinson always likes to slip a little extra up her sleeve before she leaves.  Rather than make an embarrassing scene the price of the scarf was merely included on the receipt with the Stupidity mark-up and a 10% Service charge for the inconvenience of dealing with shoplifted items.  The shoplifting part is only mentioned if the customer notices the extra charges on the receipt and makes a comment.  You should be more observant,” DeWitt told Olivia.  “It helps if you can tell a customer who denies shoplifting exactly what and where the shoplifted item is; that usually stops the denials.”  
          “But I don’t know anything about shoplifting!” protested Olivia. All those times she’d taken stuff out of the Green and Gold without paying didn’t count.  “Shoplifting” happened at all those other shops on Diagon Alley when she got a horrible case of acne afterwards; her parents would get angry; Olivia would have to listen a lecture about how her actions were beneath proper Slytherins and then life would go on as usual.  
          “Just think about what you would take and how you would conceal it,” he told her.  “Keep track of how many items are on the shelves—keep the shelves stocked with even number of items,” he suggested, “if the count is odd then somebody’s taken something.”   
          The Coocoo bird in DeWitt’s cheap Coocoo clock hanging on the wall popped it’s head out the tiny door and chirped.  It wasn’t even on the hour! Or half hour…  It wasn’t even a coocoo bird; it looked more like some canary. “Someone’s entered the Green and Gold,” DeWitt announced.  “You’d best get back to work…”

*****

          “Thank you so much for your time, Mme. Prudhomme,” said Anthony Richards politely.  “If there’s nothing else, I believe I shall take my leave.”  Anthony rose.  He gave a short bow, left the building and made his way down the narrow winding alley. That was the last of the professors. Anthony mentally ticked off what he had left to do—write up a report about Mme. Prudhomme, create appropriate rooms at Hogwarts for the Professors, check with the kitchen for dietary concerns, make portkey arrangements for their arrival the week before school began, transportation to Hogwarts…   
          Anthony continued walking until he reached a small wizard café with outdoor tables.  There, he saw Manasa Basu seated comfortably waiting for him.  Sure, it was a trip on Hogwarts business, but no one said he had to do it alone.  Anthony had first stopped by Manasa’s house in India before visiting any professors. Manasa made all those tedious maps and directions on how to find places so much easier and fun to do.  She was also helping Anthony edit his reports for McGonagall giving them that _professional_ touch.   
          Manasa looked up at his arrival.  “How did it go?” she asked in that musical voice of hers. Manasa was wearing royal blue today, which looked exceptionally well against her tan skin.   
          “Fine,” answered Anthony as he took the seat across from her. “I just have to write up my assessment for McGonagall.”  
          “Is she any better than the rest?” Manasa asked after she took a sip of her drink—clear and iced, probably a Perrier.  
          “No,” answered Anthony bluntly.  “Worse, if possible.”  Anthony had never had a very high opinion of the professors at Hogwarts, but he had less of ones he had just met.  Anthony had the impression that both Beaubaxton and Dunstrum had scraped the bottom of their barrels getting rid of their worst in the hopes the Hogwarts professors would be better.  
          “That’s not good,” commented Manasa.  “You need to take the N.E.W.T.S. this year.”  
          “If they turn out as bad as they look, I will be campaigning for additional tutoring on behalf of the 7thyear students,” assured Anthony.  “They shouldn’t have to suffer because of this exchange,” he added piously.  Nor should he.  If worse came to worse, Anthony intended to ask Paige for some tutoring over the Holidays.  High N.E.W.T.S. scores opened all sorts of employment doors.  
          “No,” agreed Manasa, “they shouldn’t.”  She finished her drink and pushed the glass aside.  “It’s still light,” she told Anthony.  “Shall we take in some of the sights?”   Manasa nodded behind her at the Eiffel Tower that loomed in the distance.  
          “An excellent idea,” agreed Anthony, though it wasn’t the Eiffel Tower he was looking at…

*****


	26. Holly

          “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Cousin Harry worriedly.  
          “I’m sure,” answered Holly Wycliff in a confident sounding voice though she wasn’t sure, not at all.  Wizard Pilkington had once whispered “freedom” in Holly’s ear and challenged her to walk the about Ministry alone.  It hadn’t been easy but Holly had done it.  It occurred to Holly she would never truly be _free_ unless she could do the same in Diagon Alley.  Those times when she’d been upset or having flashbacks didn’t count.  
          Cousin Harry nodded.  Then he added, “I’ll meet you at Bertie Botts before sundown.” He stepped quickly away.  
          Holly drew in a deep breath.  If she was going alone, it had to be all the way.  In preparation, she’d left Sasha at home.  “Winky,” she began.  Winky was the house elf who had rescued Holly from Sir.  Ever since H2, Winky was always by Holly’s side unless otherwise ordered.  That was true even at home where Winky remained invisible so father didn’t know. “Go with Cousin Harry and stay with him unless, um, I call for you,” she ordered.  “And then, bring him with you when you come.” It never hurt to have back-up plans.  “Do you understand?” Holly couldn’t see Winky nod, but there were no emotions of confusion or uncertainty that would have occurred had Winky not understood.  “Now, go!” she ordered.  Winky’s emotions diminished until they weren’t there at all.  
          Holly drew in another deep breath, then stepped under the entrance and into Diagon Alley. 

*****

          Nothing happened.  No major emotional shifts indicating recognition, nothing.  That was good.  Holly wasn’t in disguise or anything but it was nice to think she wasn’t being followed or watched.  
          Diagon Alley wasn’t exactly empty, but it wasn’t as full as Holly had seen it sometimes, especially right before school began, or that time after she’d been rescued from Sir.  Holly stepped boldly up to the first shop she saw—a cauldron shop. 

          Outside posted on the wall near the door was a brightly coloured poster—

**“Can’t sleep?”**

           It asked. 

**“Need to talk?”**

                              Contact T. Pilkington. 

**“Potions aren’t always the answer…”**

          Holly wondered what that was about.  T. Pilkington had to be Terika Pilkington, Leila’s mother.  Holly resolved to ask Leila about the poster when she next saw her.

          Then Holly turned her attention to the actual cauldron shop. She didn’t need a new cauldron, but Holly was determined to visit every shop along the way—just to prove she could do it.  
          Holly immediately sensed “interest.” “Interest” turned to “recognition” and “warmth” as the proprietor, someone Holly’d seen at the Hufflepuff meetings she’d attended, looked at her.   “Miss Wycliff,” he greeted warmly.  “You look exceptionally well.  How are you doing?”  
          “Fine, thank you,” she told the wizard politely.   
          “Are you looking for anything in particular?”  
          “No, I’m just looking.”  
          “Take your time,” he told her and retreated behind his counter.  The warmth remained, but Holly could also sense a twinge of “disappointment.”  She could easily guess its reason; a proprietor’s livelihood depended upon the sales made.  “Just looking” didn’t make for much of a sale.  Holly stared around the shop with more purpose.  Surely there was something she could buy…  Big cauldrons, little ones, cute tiny ones, iron, silver—Holly wondered why anyone would want to buy a silver or, was that really? Yes! (At least according to the label) that was a _gold_ cauldron she spied on the shelf behind the counter!  Holly knew both gold and silver melted in fire.  Why would anyone want a cauldron that would melt?  Holly thought about asking the proprietor about them but decided against it.  To show interest would possibly give the proprietor a sense of false hope that Holly might actually purchase one…  
          In the corner Holly spied a small dark cauldron that looked to be made of… yes, wood!  Equally useless as a cauldron even if the label did say “ _Iron_ wood” but no doubt far less expensive.  Perhaps mum could use it to keep the spare change in or something.  It didn’t look very “witchy” being of wood… Holly reached out, picked up the cauldron and looked inside. To her surprise, there was a sizable collection of knuts and sickles in the bottom… “Uh, this cauldron?” Holly began hesitantly.  “It’s full of—”  
          “Money?” questioned the proprietor.  “Of course!  That’s our Hufflepuff fund…”  
          “Hufflepuff fund?”  
          “Yes, the money is used to help Hufflepuffs in need.  It could be to help students attend Hogwarts or something else.”  
          “I thought Hogwarts had a scholarship to help students in need…”  
          “It does, but we like to take care of our own,” he told Holly. “Besides, some families are too proud to apply for it.”  
          Holly stared at the money thoughtfully.  “You just leave this out in the open where anyone could—”  
          “Donate?  Of course. Some people like to be discrete when making donations.”  
          “Um, I was thinking more in the line of theft,” clarified Holly.  “I mean it’s out where anyone could get it…”  
          The proprietor laughed.  “Who but a Hufflepuff would look at a wooden cauldron?”  I doubt most wizards give that cauldron a second glance! They see the word “wood” and back away. In reality, ironwood makes an excellent container for low temperature potions but only a true potion master knows that.”  
          “But the money?”  
          “Few wizards see the cauldron let alone the money inside,” he told her confidently.  “Those who do, ask, like you have.  And later, I find a few more coins left within…. It works.  I do have some reasonably priced _empty_ ironwood cauldrons if you’re interested,” the proprietor added.  
          Holly smiled.  “I’ll have to think on that,” she told him while returning the ironwood cauldron to the shelf.  “But I do have some spare coins I could add to the pot.”  A lot, actually Holly hadn’t made it to Gringtotts since the settlement. She reached into her coin purse, grabbed a handful of galleons and put them into the cauldron.   
          “Thank you so much,” said the proprietor with a genuine smile, disappointment long gone.  “Have a nice day.”  
          “I will.”

*****

          Slowly but surely Holly made her way down Diagon Alley visiting each and every shop.  All the proprietors greeted her warmly as if she was an old friend; Holly had no idea she was so well known or liked.  She found herself making small purchases from each shop or donating to the Hufflepuff fund containers she spotted just to avoid the inevitable “disappointment” she sensed when she didn’t. 

*****


	27. Olivia

           Olivia O’Shea sat behind the counter of the Green and Gold. She was frankly, bored.  Crowley wouldn’t let Olivia to read any of her favorite magazines suggesting she study something productive instead like Wizard Law or Wizard News.  But Olivia was done with studying and school.  So, she was bored instead.  Why didn’t Crowley come down on DeWitt for his girlie magazines?  
          The door opened.  Olivia looked up.  Holly Wycliff entered!  “What are you doing here?” Olivia questioned acidly.  
          Wycliff started, backed up bumping against the closed door, wand aimed at Olivia.  She must have had the wand in her hand all along; Olivia hadn’t even seen her draw it.   
          “Um, I’m looking for P—Mrs. Crowley,” Wycliff answered while staring at Olivia with wide eyes.  
           “She’s not here,” replied Olivia bluntly.  “The entrance to her shop is in Knockturn Alley.  Do you want directions?”  It was a no-brainer. The Silver and Gold was on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Alley.   Knockturn was out the door, to the right, maybe 4 meters away.  The Crowley’s Potions door was hard to miss.  Course, Crowley was out at the moment but that wasn’t Olivia’s problem…  
          “Um, no,” replied Wycliff with wide eyes while staring at Olivia. “I think I’ll wait.”  
          “Not in here!” declared Olivia firmly.  In truth, some of Crowley’s clients waited inside and shopped when Crowley was out but they were  _actual_ clients.  There was no way Olivia would tolerate Wycliff’s presence that way.  Unfortunately, Wycliff didn’t move.  
          “You’re blocking the entrance!!” Olivia said pointedly. Wycliff looked behind her seeming to note, for the first time her back was against the door.  She hastily scooted over to the wall next to the door.  
          Wide eyes, pointed wand; Olivia had no idea Wycliff was such a scaredy-cat!  Perhaps that was why she had never seen Wycliff alone before!  “Do you need an escort?” Olivia asked sarcastically.   “I can’t leave the shop but maybe someone _out_ side could help!”  Another hint to leave.  
          “You really beg Basu to keep the prefect job while we were at Hogwarts?”  
          “Huh?  What th? Who told you that!”  demanded Olivia angrily.  “That I would _ever_ “beg” anything from that, that _tramp!”_  
          “Exactly!” agreed Wycliff straightening away from the wall. “And I’m not going anywhere until I see Mrs. Crowley,” she added while pocketing her wand.  Gone was the wide-eyed fear; Wycliff’s demeanor had totally changed.  How had that happened?  Why?  
          “Go to her store!” demanded Olivia.  
          “I have!” insisted Wycliff.   
          “On Knockturn Alley!”  
          “Why?  There is an entrance in here for those who don’t want to use Knockturn Alley.  That’s me!”  
          How did she know about that?  Olivia doubted Wycliff had ever been inside before.  “You’re not Slytherin!”  
          “So?  There’s no sign saying “Slytherins only!”   
          That was true, there _was_ no sign but non-Slytherins knew better than to come in…. Or should have. That Wycliff would presume otherwise…. “You can’t afford it!” persisted Olivia stonily.   
          Wycliff laughed! “I’ve an … _inheritance!”_ she told Olivia.  Olivia winced at the reminder.  “Inheritance” was another term the students agreed to use should anyone inquire about the H2 settlement.  “But I’m here to see Mrs. Crowley,” Wycliff continued.  “Why are _you_ here?”  
         Olivia drew herself up straight.  “I work here! Of course!” she told Wycliff stiffly.  
          “Not for long if you keep chasing out the customers!” retorted Wycliff.  
          “You are _not_ a customer!” reminded Olivia.  “You said so yourself!”  
          “But I _could_ be,” declared Wycliff scanning the shop.  “If I happened to fancy any of your _over_ priced stuff!”  She took a step forward. “How does Richards like you working here?” she asked conversationally as she moved over to look at the nearest display.  
          “He likes it just fine!” Olivia declared promptly not that she knew if he even knew…   
          “I doubt that,” Wycliff commented while moving to the next display.  “Is that?” she began, her eye obviously attracted by a new display recently put up. "No!  How much is that?”   she asked pointing to something Malfoy brought in for sale.  Some sort of school personal communication device called a _“Tell Fone”_ that enabled one to write, listen and speak to each other.   
          “Fifty galleons!” Olivia answered promptly. She had no idea of the price but the thought of selling anything to Wycliff was so odious—maybe a major mark-up would discourage her…  
          “Miss Wycliff?”  Olivia looked over to the owner of the voice.  
          “Mrs. Crowley!” greeted Wycliff with a smile of obvious delight.  She took a step forward and then stopped.  “What did you say when you woke up in the hospital?” she asked in a serious voice.  
           Crowley raised an eyebrow.  “You were there?”  
           Wycliff didn’t respond but looked intently at Crowley. What was going on between the two? “Then you would know what I _didn’t_ say…”  
           Wycliff’s face split into a wide smile.  “I do!” she acknowledged.  “Is it ready?  Have you finished?”  
          “Of course.”  Crowley held up an emerald green drawstring bag.  Wycliff moved forward quickly and took the bag.  She opened it and pulled the top out—looked at it briefly and let it drop back into the bag.  “That’s terrific!” she enthused.  “You’re the best!  What do I owe you?”  
          “No charge,” Crowley told Wycliff smoothly.   
          “Really?” Wycliff asked with disbelief.  Mrs. Crowley nodded.  “Thanks!”  she tucked the bag in a black and gold bag slung over her shoulder.   
          Wycliff turned to leave. She stopped and again looked at the _“Tell Fone.”_ “How much is that?” she asked Mrs. Crowley.  It was pretty obvious Wycliff hadn’t believed Olivia.   
          Mrs. Crowley looked directly at Olivia and said, “Fifty galleons.”  Olivia puffed.  “But for you, no charge.”  Mrs. Crowley waved her wand causing one to float off the shelf and into Wycliff’s hands. “Think of it as an … apology ... in the hopes you’ll think kindly upon us despite the … _cold_ reception.”  Mrs. Crowley again stared at Olivia as she spoke and her black eyes seemed to pierce right through her.  Olivia gulped.   
          “Hey Holly!”  
          “Roland!” greeted Wycliff.  “Thanks ever!” she told Mrs. Crowley while stuffing the item in her black and gold bag—probably extendable.  Then Wycliff moved over to the other side of the shop where DeWitt stood.  “Where were you?” questioned Wycliff.  
          “Sorry, I’ve my own shop to run,” DeWitt told her.  “I was busy with a client or I would have come out and said “hi!” sooner.  Want to see my shop?”  
          “Sure!” The two went into DeWitt’s shop closing the door behind them.  
          “That will be taken out of your _tip,”_ hissed Crowley in Olivia’s ear.  How had she gotten behind Olivia so fast and so silently?  _“Never_ discourage potential customers!”   
          The icy words sent shivers through Oliva and then, “Tip? _What_ tip?” Olivia asked with instant interest.  
          “The ones you’ve been receiving for dealing with particularly _difficult_ customers!”  Olivia looked at Mrs. Crowley with shock.  “Your father will claim your earnings if I pay you wages,” Mrs. Crowley explained further, “but he can’t claim tips.”  
          All sorts of new thoughts swirled through Olivia’s head.  _“I’ve money!”_ she thought excitedly!  _“How much! How do I get it?”_ Olivia shoved those questions aside figuring she could get the answers from DeWitt later and forced herself to focus on what else Crowley was saying.  
          “… ever _succeed_ in chasing away a customer I will fire you for real!” Crowley threatened.  
           “She’s a Hufflepuff!” replied Olivia defensively.  
           “A Hufflepuff who has made a purchase in every shop in Diagon Alley she has visited—every shop _except_ ours!”  
           “But you _gave_ her the potion!”  
           “The potion was already paid for.  To charge her would have been double payment…”  
          “How was I supposed to know!” whined Olivia.  _“She_ didn’t even know!”  
           “It is not your business to know,” reproved Crowley in an icy voice.  “You are here to make sales.  At _my_ prices, not yours!”  
           “You could have corrected me!”  
           “And embarrass you yet again?”   
           “…and fired me afterward!”  
           “She saw through your other lies!” Crowley reminded.  “Wycliff would have never believed your crocodile tears were I to merely _fire_ you.  Seeing through a temporary dismissal would embarrass _me;_ I will _not_ be embarrassed.  You would have had to have been _actually_ fired!  I did not wish to do that.    
           “You didn’t have to _give_ it to her!” whined Olivia defensively.  
           “There had to be a consequence for your rudeness.”  
           “But she doesn’t belong!” protested Olivia.  “This store is for _Slytherins!”_  
           “There is no sign stating that,” reminded Crowley.   
           Olivia sniffed.  “There should be!”  
           “Do you know why there is none?  There is no sign because they do not _sort_ in Europe.  A sign would exclude all Europeans and deny us their business.  The people of London know for whom the shop is intended.  If someone knowing that _still_ wishes to enter The Green and Gold, you will _not_ obstruct.  Is that clear?”  
           There was a long silence.  It was one thing waiting on other Slytherins but another waiting on _Hufflepuffs._   Maybe she could just ignore them.  That wasn’t obstruction, not really… “Yes,” Olivia mumbled sullenly.  It wasn’t as if she’d seen many non-Slytherins enter the store anyway.   
           “Yes?”  
           Olivia rolled her eyes.  “Yes, ma’am.”  
          “See that you don’t forget.”

*****


	28. Holly

          “May I help you?” came the calm respectful voice of Griphook. His emotions were less-than respectful—but then, they never were.  Holly knew most witches and wizards regarded goblins with annoyed disgust, but after last year, Holly found goblins, in general, very scary.  Griphook was scary too, but not as much.  Despite his overwhelming hatred, he’d taken time to warn Cousin Harry about the Blood Bounty (Holly still didn’t know why) and they owed him for that.   
          “Yes,” answered Holly Wycliff.  “I’d like to visit vault 827.”   
          “May I see your key?” Holly removed her key from her neck and handed it to Griphook.  He looked at the key and then said, “If you will follow me.” Griphook stepped into Gringotts. Holly followed.   
          Holly didn’t really need to visit her vault; she needed to offset the emotionally charged memories of her last visit.  The simple act of walking into Gringotts did much towards that end. It was still scary re-entering Gringotts, though; logically Holly knew nothing would happen, should happen, but that didn’t stop the gut apprehension.  Holly kept her mind alert for sudden goblin rages and when none happened, she mentally searched for the other goblin, the one Roland had helped by removing the _confringo_ spell.  She didn’t sense him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around somewhere. The number of goblins who rushed in when Holly’s voice was recognized last time was staggering.   
          Griphook led Holly to the back; a cart came forward.  Holly stepped in and sat down.  Griphook got in and sat down next to her.  The dizzying roller coaster ride began with sharp turns right and left, up and down, around again and again and up and down, water splashed and they sped on…. Abruptly the cart stopped.  Griphook got out.  He walked over to a huge door.  He inserted Holly’s key into the lock...   
          A few minutes later Holly was standing in her vault looking at two piles of galleons—payment from a grateful Ministry in appreciation of Holly’s efforts in destroying two Tom riddle plaques…. Holly had never counted the coins; didn’t care.  The money was too little or too much.  Too little because no amount of money could ever compensate Holly for the trauma of those days; too much because Holly had never asked for money to do what she did; had wanted nothing but to be with her family again.  Holly reached into her bag and removed a single galleon.  She placed it on the floor next to the other piles. There, that gave purpose to her visit.   
          Holly stepped outside.  “I’m ready to return now,” she told Griphook.  He nodded.  The huge vault door swung shut with a loud clang.  Then Griphook opened the cart door.  Holly got in and sat down…. The cart took a different path to get back to the main floor.  
          “I’d like to meet with President Gottenram,” Holly told Griphook when the cart came to a stop.   
          “Does this relate to business?”  
          “Um, I think so, maybe?”  
          “Come with me.”  Griphook led Holly through the banking counters into the impenetrable blackness beyond.  Then Griphook stopped.  Holly could just barely see him reach out a hand.  He seemed to be pressing something.  A whispery soft hiss caused Holly to realize a door had opened. Griphook continued to walk forward. Holly followed.  In doing so, Holly realized she had passed though a wall of some sort, one that was invisible from the distance and blended in perfectly with the cave-like background.  Griphook stopped a second time and reached out his hand.  Holly heard another hiss; the emotions from within the bank ceased. She could tell a door had closed but she could still see all the activity within the bank beyond; the wall had to be of clear glass or something.   
          Griphook raised his hand and pressed the inside wall. Another hiss sounded and a new door opened. Light spilled into the area where Holly stood.  She was in a small room with huge smooth walls enabling her to see out.  On the other side of the door Griphook had just opened was a small semi-oval shaped room that appeared to be roughly hewn out of the rocky wall.  Three torches spaced evenly around the walls lighted the room. There was a small irregularly shaped mahogany coloured table in the center along with a matching chair.  Griphook stepped inside.  He stepped aside and let Holly enter.   
          “Please wait here,” instructed Griphook and turned to leave.   
          “No!” exclaimed Holly abruptly.  It was a gut reaction.  “I don’t know how to get out!” she mumbled in explanation.  Despite the light, the room with its see-through walls seemed too much like Sir’s prison when he was “testing.” Holly had a sudden image of being locked in the room—forever—able to _see_ but not _get_ out…  
          The distain and disgust magnified.  Included with it were the emotions of frustration and exasperation. Then Griphook stepped to the wall. “Press here,” he told Holly showing her a small indentation in the wall.  She pressed it and the door closed with both Holly and Griphook inside.  Then Griphook instructed Holly to press it again. The door slid open.  Griphook stepped through to the other side.   
          “Thank you,” whispered Holly as the door slid closed between them.  Holly watched through the window/wall as Griphook left.  His short figure vanished into the darkness beyond.  Then Holly clutched her bag tightly and waited anxiously—suddenly afraid that what had once happened to Minister Shaklebolt and Cousin Harry (waiting forever in a room only to be turned out once the bank closed) would happen to her.  She peered into the blackness beyond the walls searching for any sign of movement in her direction.  
          Ten minutes later Holly was relieved to see a familiar shape head towards her.  The outside door opened, closed and then the inside one.   
          “If you will follow me,” said Griphook in his usual polite voice.  
          “Yes,” agreed Holly. “Um, how do I talk to him?”  
          “Miss?”  
          “I mean he’s a president and all,” Holly hastened to explain, “I’ve never talked to a president before, as a president, I mean,” Holly added realizing she had talked to Gottenram before but that was about the Blood Bounty.  “I don’t want to offend him or anything…”  
          Griphook regarded her with that stony face and a mixture of disgust, arrogance and exasperation.  “Remove that covering,” he ordered abruptly.   
          “What?”  Holly looked down at her feet knowing that goblins considered shoes unnecessary, but that couldn’t be it.  Even he wore shoes here.  Then she followed the direction of Griphook’s eyes.  “Oh!” And Holly hastily stripped off the lace fingerless glove covering her tattoo.  “Sorry,” she said apologetically.  “It’s beautiful, really,” she told Griphook while looking at the intricate mole cricket tattooed on the back of her hand, “but when the wiz—ah the wand carriers,” Holly broke off trying to put her thoughts into words.  “It makes the wand carriers uncomfortable when they see it,” she told Griphook.  “I see now there is no need to cover it in here.”  Holly shoved the glove in her pocket. “I’m ready,” she told Griphook. He turned and stepped out of the room. Holly followed.  
          They walked alongside the smooth outer wall for about fifty meters when Griphook stopped and pressed another indentation.  The door slid open and Griphook stepped inside; Holly slipped her hand into her extendable bag, withdrew a small bottle and hid it behind her back.  Then she followed.  The outer door closed and Griphook opened the next.  Holly saw a similarly carved room lit by torches.  Only this time President Gottenram sat behind the table.  
          Gottenram wore a suit of crimson and royal blue trimmed in gold. His long thin fingers were clasped in front of him and his black eyes seemed to pierce right though Holly without him saying a word.  Yes, he still hurt, but not like he had when he had called the Bounty.  “You wished to see me?” Gottenram questioned bluntly.  
          “Yes.  It’s about the other goblin,” Holly began.  “You know, the one Roland removed the spell from…”  
          Gottenram’s eyebrows furrowed in annoyance and rising anger.  “You said it was a matter of business!” he accused.  
          “It is!” protested Holly.  “The other goblin—he’s a Gringotts employee, isn’t he?” she reminded.  “That makes it business, doesn’t it?  I want to know how he’s doing!  Are there any, um, side effects?”  
          The anger diminished.  “No,” he answered in his imperious voice; Holly sensed honesty behind his word.  “Is there anything else?  
          “Um, no,” answered Holly.  “I’ll um, be leaving now,” she told him backing up as she spoke.  “Thank you so much for your time.”  Holly curtseyed setting something down behind her legs as she did.  Then she reached out with her tattooed hand and pressed the indentation in the wall. The door slid open.  Stepping carefully, Holly backed into the entry room quickly closing the door between them.   
_“There!”_ thought Holly with excitement and satisfaction _.  “I’ve done it!”_   On the floor behind where she had stood was a clear glass milk bottle shaped jar sealed with a big fat cork and green wax.  It was filled with translucent pills, each perfectly spherical in vibrant gem-like colours.  Holly opened the second door and rapidly made her way out of Gringotts.  The pills were intended to address the pain Gottenram still had, pain Holly had observed emanating from Gottenram during their encounter over the winter holidays, pain Holly was certain stemmed from Sir’s brutal torture.  Gottenram was proud, very proud.  He would never openly accept help from a “wand carrier.”  But Holly wouldn’t let that stop her.  Gottenram would know what to do with the pills if he wished.

*****


	29. Holly

          “May I help you?” Holly jumped at the sound—the shop had seemed empty, was empty—empty of emotions.  She looked up into the brown eyes of a rather averaged sized proprietor who stood behind the counter.   
          “Uh, no,” Holly managed to stammer.  “I’m just looking…”  
          “Of course,” he replied.  “Take your time.”  
          Holly inched her way into the store.  This curio shop wasn’t the first place Holly had entered that had a proprietor who practiced Occlumency.  But Madam Malkins’ was filled with other customers and Holly knew Madam Malcom.  Of course, Holly expected no emotions at the Green and Gold either, but not O’Shea. That had been a jolt.   
          Holly sensed, rather than saw motion coming from the proprietor.  Holly swiftly aimed her own wand in readiness before even looking—looking wasted valuable time … She saw the proprietor with his own wand out, pointed towards her… Then the proprietor set his wand on the counter in plain sight.  Holly stared at the wand and then to the proprietor in confusion.  “What?”  
          “My name is Wizard Terry Boot, Miss Wycliff,” the proprietor said in a calm voice facing her wand down without a single hint of fear.  “I practice Occlumency.  It occurs to me, that you might feel more comfortable in my shop if you knew with certainty that I did not intend to attack you when you weren’t looking…” He stepped away from his wand and retreated into a corner chair. “Take your time,” he told her and picked up a newspaper to read.   
          Holly cautiously pocketed her wand but still hung tightly on. “That would help,” she said finally finding her voice.  “Except you still probably have another wand hiding within reach.”  
          The wizard looked up from his newspaper at Holly and blinked thoughtfully.  “A very good idea,” he told her.  “I shall have to visit Ollivanders…”  He returned his attention to the newspaper.  
          Holly took a cautious step further into the shop. Nothing happened.  No emotions of hopefulness, no sensation of being “watched…” It was weird.  No emotions to give Holly a clue as to what to say next.  Wizard Thomas had asked Holly what she would do if she encountered someone she “didn’t” know who practiced Occlumency.  Holly had said “Hold my wand tighter.”  Well, she had done that.  Now what?  It occurred to Holly that she had absolutely no idea how to carry on a conversation with someone who practiced Occlumency. This Wizard Boot seemed innocuous enough. Perhaps she could try with him.  “How did you know it was me?” Holly began tentatively.  “Uh, who I was,” she hastily rephrased.  
          “Your braid is quite distinctive, Miss,” came the response. Wizard Boot turned the page.   
          Was this how conversations worked between strangers? Usually people who recognized her were busy asking her questions, vying for her attention. Holly was constantly reading emotions trying to figure out what she should and should not say about what she sensed.  Holly looked down looking for something to say.  She noted the many bins each filled with something different—all fairly dusty. “Do you get many customers?” she asked while wondering why nothing was dusted.  There were several “Dusting” spells. That he hadn’t used any, maybe he liked it that way.  Was he another version of Aberforth Dumbledore and his Inn?  
          “Enough,” came the non-committal response.  
          Holly spied a jar of “Dreamless” high on a shelf.  She recognized it as one of Paige’s bottles. What was it doing here?   
          Another shelf near it was full of scrolls.  Green with gold trim.  Holly grabbed one without opening it—they were less dusty than the other items. Then she made her way to the counter. Perhaps she could take her time here, but the very idea made her uncomfortable.  
          Wizard Boot stood when she laid the scroll on the counter. His wand was still conspicuously out of reach.  “Oh, no,” he said when he looked at the item.  “You surely don’t want to purchase that.”  
          “Why?”  
          “It’s a Sympathy Scroll.”  
          “A what?”  
          “A Sympathy Scroll,” repeated Wizard Boot.  He picked up the scroll and unrolled it for Holly to see. Inside was the image of a lady with long hair dressed in Kelly green robes.  She knelt near a bed and picked up the child within.  Then she turned into a winged snake that coiled itself around the child and flew off with the child in her arms, both disappearing into a bright beam of light.  The words: “In Loving Memory…” appeared on the headboard of the bed.  “The scroll is useless,” Wizard Boot told Holly. “There’s no one to send it to.  I should probably destroy it...”  
          “Why haven’t you?”  
          “It’s a nice piece of magic,” he told her.  “I hate to destroy good magic.”  
          Holly looked back at the shelf.  There were a lot of scrolls.  “I’ll go get a different one,” she told the wizard.  
          “They’re all Sympathy Scrolls,” he told her,  
          “All of them?” Holly echoed in disbelief.  
          “Or Get Well Scrolls.  They’re totally unnecessary now.”  
          “Why do you have so many?” Holly asked curiously.  
          Wizard Boot studied Holly a moment.  Then he said.  “It was for an order made last year,” he told her.  
          “An order?” echoed Holly.   She felt a shiver go through her body. _“When?”_ she wondered.  
          “Yes.  And then the order was cancelled.”  
          “Oh.”  It didn’t make sense.  
          “Ten sympathy scrolls and eighty get well scrolls,” said Wizard Boot softly.  “None were sent out.  The Slytherin parents will never say anything to you directly, Miss Wycliff, but we all know who kept the students alive last year.  Thank you.  We all owe you so much.”  
          Holly felt her face burn with the compliment.  “It wasn’t me,” she protested.  
          “It wasn’t Anthony Richards,” Wizard Boot told her.  “In fact, if rumors are correct, that scroll you’re holding would have been sent to his family, if not for you.”  
          Holly stared at the scroll fighting back the memories of sick students, their desperation, willing them to live.  “I think I want it anyway,” she told the wizard.  “A reminder of what might have been…  How much?”  
          “No charge,” Wizard Boot said easily.  “I’ve lots of them…”  
          Holly fingered the scroll thoughtfully.  And then, “No,” she told him.  “That’s not fair.  They were commissioned; someone put a lot of work into them and you were left high and dry. You can’t make a living if you give everything away…”  She reached into her bag to pull out some coins.  Wizard Boot covered her hand with his stopping her action.  “I don’t operate this shop to make a profit,” he told her.   
          “Huh?”   
          “I’m a Ravenclaw, Miss Wycliff.  When Lord Voldemort died, I saved, invested and did well for myself. I opened this shop not because I needed money, but because it’s on Diagon Alley. Diagon Alley is at the center of the Wizard community in London.  It’s where all the action is.  Even so, it’s usually a rather dull place, until you came along.”  
          “Me?”  
          “Yes, that was a grand parade a few years ago after you escaped from Sir.  Never seen the likes of that before.”  Holly felt her face warm.  “And the party at the bank—that was pretty good too.  Not at first, that was intense, more so than that goblin riot...”  
          Holly felt her face get even warmer.  She looked down; would that hide the redness of embarrassment?  Did Wizard Boot know she was the cause of the riot too?  What should she say if he asked?  
          But Wizard Boot instead looked down at her gloved hand.  “May I see your hand?”  he asked politely.  Holly instinctively put her left over her right covering it.  “I only saw it wrapped up that night, of course,” Wizard Boot continued informatively, “but I’m told it has healed quite nicely…”   
          The request seemed to originate from genuine interest, not an attempt to mock or ridicule.  Holly slowly pulled off the black lace fingerless glove she wore to cover the tattoo and held the hand out to Wizard Boot.   
          He took her hand gently in his and looked at the tattoo. “Exquisite,” he murmured appreciatively. “And it doesn’t hurt?  
          “No.”  
          “No side effects?”  
          “No.”  
          “Wear it with pride, Miss Wycliff,” Wizard Boot told her as he released her hand.  “You’ve earned it.”   
          Holly looked up into Wizard Boot’s face.  Whenever the Hufflepuffs looked at or spoke of the tattoo, Holly often sensed revulsion, wariness, worry and concern.  She saw nothing but total sincerity in Wizard Boot’s brown eyes. “Thank you.”

*****


	30. Holly/Harry Potter

          Harry Potter leaned back in his chair at Bertie Botts and sipped his _brown_ Every Flavour Colour shake. Nutmeg flavoured this time.  The shake was a bit more spicy than he would have preferred, but not bad.   As flavours went, nutmeg was infinitely better than the mud or tree bark flavoured “browns” he’d had on other days.  Harry kept hoping it would come up chocolate some day…  
          It had been difficult to walk off and leave Holly behind. Harry was tempted to slip on his invisible cloak and follow along, just in case.  But to do so, would suggest he didn’t think Holly could make the trip safely alone.  Harry _did_ think she could do it but, after flashbacks, kidnappings and disappearances, well, old habits die hard…  
          But Harry needn’t have worried about keeping track of Holly. No sooner had he sat down, than a Hufflepuff approached Harry.  “I just saw Holly in the cauldron shop!  Were you looking for her?”  
          “No, no she’s just doing some shopping on her own…”  
          Thirty minutes later he overheard one of the other patrons say, “Holly was at the candle shop and she talked to me!  _Me!_  Can you believe it?”  
          Fifteen minutes after that he was approached by another Hufflepuff; “I saw Holly at Felicity’s!  Is something wrong with Sasha?”  
          “No, no she’s just looking about…”  
          And even later:  “I saw Holly at Ollivanders!  Did something happen to her wand?’”  
          “No, she’s probably just visiting…” More likely buying a _fourth_ wand, knowing Holly, but Harry wouldn’t suggest that to anyone.  
          It turned out that Holly hadn’t informed the Hufflepuffs of her plan to walk Diagon Alley; they were as much, if not more, worried about Holly on her own than Harry.  Harry knew they meant well, but the concern felt almost claustrophobic.    
          Three hours later Holly walked into Bertie Botts.  Aside from the new flowers in her hair, the turquoise coloured sweater with the swirling gold trim over her shoulders, and the knee-high red socks decorated with gray cats chasing butterflies on her legs and matching scarf around her neck, Holly looked much as she had when she had left.  Harry was certain there were more purchases in that black and gold extendable bag Holly carried on her shoulder. None of the comments about Holly had included any mention of purchases, but then wasn’t that the reason why one entered stores on Diagon Alley?  
          This year all the students had money to spend and Diagon Alley was the first place they went with their extra funds.   
           Shortly before school had ended last year, McGonagall had called an emergency meeting of the Hogwarts Governors to approve disbursal of a “settlement” to the Hogwarts student.  She wouldn’t go into details except to say it had something to do with the “events” of the school year. That meant it probably had to do with H2.  Normally Harry would have insisted on more details, such as how much?  To whom? Where was the money coming from? Could the school afford the payment? Except the entire amount of the settlement (amount unspecified) was being deposited into the Hogwarts account from an outside anonymous source for the specific purpose of making the settlement.  It was all very hush-hush and rather vague, but accepting the settlement and making payment to the students absolved Hogwarts of any legal responsibility, real or imagined, concerning the “events” of the year.  Harry could easily guess Thackeray’s estate had paid out the equivalent of “guilt” money for what had happened.  Pilkington would insist on anonymity to protect Nadia; he would not want the news that Nadia’s mum was still somehow attached to Nadia made public.    
          Lucius Malfoy, showing up to a Governor’s meeting for the first time within Harry’s memory, swiftly made the motion to approve the “settlement” while glaring around the room daring any to oppose; Harry seconded it. The motion carried unanimously without discussion.  Only the day before Harry had received an owl from Albus stating briefly, “Can’t explain, but say “yes” to the settlement.  Harry wondered if Lucius and the other Governors had received similar messages from their respective children/grandchildren.  
          Harry stood when Holly neared.  “How’d it go?” he asked by way of greeting.  
          “Fine,” she answered with almost a dreamy look on her face.   
          That meant “more than fine,” as far as Harry was concerned.  He smiled, glad the day was a success.  “Would you like something to eat?”  
          “No thank you,” she replied.  “I’ve already eaten.”  
          “Then, shall we go?”  
          “Mmm.”  The two stepped outside of Bertie Botts and then Holly said, “Could you do me a favour?”  
          “Oh?”  
          “I’d like to tour Knockturn Alley, if I may,” she suggested hopefully.  
          “Knockturn?”  
          “Yes.”  
          “Alone?”  
          “Of course not!  I’ve had enough of alone!  I’d like to go with you. I want to see what Knockturn’s like on a normal day.”  
          “Very well.”  Harry held out his elbow, Holly slipped her arm within his and the two walked back up Diagon Alley until they reached Knockturn Alley.  Then the two turned and started down Knockturn.

*****

          Paige’s Potion shop was easy to spot—a sedate Rx symbol was carved into the door, painted green, and a matching coloured sign saying “Potions” hung above the door.  The door was truly on the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Alley.  It would have been easy enough to turn the corner and enter by the Potions door, but there was no way Holly Wycliff would do anything _O’Shea_ wanted—especially not after what she’d done to Holly!  How could Paige hire someone like that!!!  When she had gotten over the surprise and indignation, Holly decided maybe there was no better place for O’Shea than under the watchful eyes of two _aurors!_   Surely they would make sure O’Shea couldn’t try anything else; maybe they could even turn her around a bit.  Holly was certain Anthony Richards knew nothing about O’Shea’s employment; should she warn him?  Nah, he could handle it.  
          There weren’t nearly as many people on Knockturn Alley than Diagon Alley, or maybe there were more practicing Occlumency…. Of the emotions she felt, Holly sensed many filled with “recognition” but that could be of either her or Cousin Harry.  The shops on Knockturn Alley were as seedy as Holly remembered but this time there were no flashbacks to worry about, no Umbridge.   
          It angered Holly to think Umbridge was walking the streets free after all she had done; well she had been walking the streets as a fugitive for quite some time, just now she could do it openly.  Holly had to remind herself that Umbridge had never been charged with her kidnapping or of causing the stadium to collapse so the public never knew what horrible things Umbridge had done.  Should she (Holly) try to charge her and get her back in prison? Was it worth it?  
          When they finished Knockturn Alley, Holly insisted Cousin Harry take her to the back of Gringotts.  There it was, the goblin exit.  Holly had been there before, with “Uncle John.”—Sir!  That day had been a memory of “Jane’s.”  Even now, the murderous hatred of the goblins gave Holly nightmares.  It was weird seeing the place without the confusion and terror.  Holly closed her eyes in thought. There had been the goblins, and before…. “This way,” she told Cousin Harry and began to retrace the steps of that fateful visit with “Uncle John.”  Some of the emotions Holly sensed along the way seemed vaguely familiar and mingled with her memories.  The alley narrowed.  Holly kept walking.  “Something’s not right,” she said stopping.  She looked around.  Everything looked right.  What was it?  
          “Oh?”   
          “It smelt of sewage last time,” she told Cousin Harry. Was it a Sir added scent or just the time of year?  
          “Last time?”  
          “Yes, when I was with Sir.” Cousin Harry’s emotions darkened as they always did when Sir’s name was mentioned.  Holly began to walk again; Cousin Harry kept pace.  She continued walking until she faced a solid brick wall. “It wasn’t a wall!” she told Cousin Harry.  “Not that day.  It opened up to the outside.  Do you suppose it’s another entrance?”  
          “Probably,” agreed Cousin Harry.  He drew his wand and tapped the wall experimentally.  
          “Hey!” shouted a voice from above.  “Wha’ cher doin’?”  
          “Yeah!” came another voice.  “Use the _public_ exits ifin ya want out!”  
          “Sorry!” shouted Cousin Harry.  He dropped his wand and stepped back.  “An exit,” he told Holly, “but clearly not for us.”  
          “It was here,” Holly whispered softly while suddenly feeling sick to her stomach.   
          “Here?”  
          “Yes.  Sir gave me a soda for encouragement,” Holly said simply.  Even now she could remember the delight, the cold fresh flavour as it poured down her throat; it had been so wonderful.  
          Holly had never meant to read the papers about her that Roland had found at Sir’s place.  It had become a necessity when she learned of the Blood Bounty.  Holly had locked herself up in Cousin Harry’s bedroom with the portrait of Headmaster Snape, Sasha and Winky for company.  Holly had shared aloud anything related to goblins but none of it seemed to relate to Blood Bounties.  Then Holly had read further because she realized the information filled in the gaps of her memory as “Jane” and explained things. Of course the villagers were suspicious and wary of Holly; Sir had spread rumours in the neighborhood of a female murderous maniac fitting Holly’s description…  
         “Sir dosed it with _Lunacy,”_ Holly added flatly knowing now it had been more than a simple sweaty bottle of soda.  She’d never be able to touch another sweaty bottle for fear the same thing would happen again.   
_“Lunacy!”_ Cousin Harry echoed and his emotions instantly grew cold.   
          “He was afraid I’d regain my memories when I encountered the stronger Wizard emotions and wanted to insure I relied only on him,” Holly added explaining further.  “But he gave me too much…” Holly didn’t say more unable even now to voice the nameless terror she’d felt augmented by the murderous rage of the goblins.  
          “The counter?”  
          “I couldn’t keep it down!” she told him.   
          “What happened?” he asked curiously.  Holly had never spoken to him of her days as “Jane.” She’d wanted to forget them as much as possible.  Now, the memories didn’t seem to hurt as much.  
          “He finally got me to take some _Serenity_ and that helped.” Holly looked up at Cousin Harry. “Should I tell Paige what her potion did?” she asked.  
          “If you wish,” came the answer.  “That is between you and her but I’m sure she’d like to know.”  
          “The time!” Holly exclaimed suddenly.  “Come on!”  She raced down the alley and headed back towards Gringotts.  Cousin Harry followed.  It was an hour past closing.  They arrived just in time to see the goblin bankers march out. Holly slid to a stop and stood inside a doorway.  She wanted to see the goblins, but did not want to risk getting seen by them. It should be O.K.; the Blood Bounty had already been taken, but Holly didn’t want to push it.  It was as she remembered; the bankers were all men with swarthy faces, pointed beards and bright coloured suits.  Holly easily picked out Gottenram within the group. But he was not the goblin she was seeking.  The goblins were filled with their usual arrogance, disdain and hatred not giving Holly and Cousin Harry a second glance as they passed.  Holly breathed a sigh of relief—hatred, not _murderous_ hatred.  That was a big difference. And—she had found the emotion she sought. Gottenram had said that other goblin was fine, but that wasn’t the same as finding out for herself.  Was he fine? Holly still really didn’t know; but his emotions matched that of the other goblins and there was none of that explosive frustration she had sensed before.

*****


	31. Anthony

          Anthony Richards took one last look around the room surveying it critically.  He pulled out his wand and slid the chairs a bit away from the table—a sturdy rectangular one with six chairs—two on either side and one on each end.  On the center of the table was a tray of snacks, some of the fancier things he’d tasted and liked while in France—all paid for by Hogwarts. Pilkington maintained that advance preparation made all the difference in achieving the desired results. Anthony wanted this meeting to be successful.  
          Anthony heard a rumble of footsteps on the creaky staircase of the Leaky Cauldron.  He quickly stowed his wand in anticipation; it was early but not too early.  He looked up in time to see Holly Wycliff walk into view.  She froze at the doorway staring at him with wide green eyes as if she’d never seen him before.   
          Scorpius pushed past her and into the room. “Congratulations!” he greeted.  “I hear you passed your Occlumency test!”   
          “Thanks,” replied Anthony with a smile.  Manasa had helped him study and prepare for the test while they were in Europe.  It had been a pleasant way to spend the evenings, and mornings, and the rest of the day…  
          Scorpius slid into a side chair nearest Anthony, grabbed a petit four and popped it into his mouth.  “Not bad,” he muttered approvingly after he swallowed.   
          “You OK, Holly?” asked Conner Fitzpatrick worriedly stopping besides Wycliff, still frozen in the doorway, now clutching a wand tightly in her hand.  
          “Course she is,” assured Leila Pilkington coolly appearing behind the two.  “She just wasn’t expecting Richards to be some emotionless blob!” Leila added nodding her head at Anthony.  
          Anthony stared at Pilkington blankly.  “But—you took the test at the same time!  I know you passed!  Why isn’t she staring at you the same way?”  
          “Because I’m not so rude as to hide my emotions when I’m around Holly,” informed Leila bluntly as she moved past Wycliff and entered the room.  
          “You can do that?” blurted Anthony in surprise.  _“How?”_ Paige had not been happy when Anthony announced he’d passed his test. She’d advised he wait and work on that after he left Hogwarts as a student.  But Manasa had been equally insistent; it had been a great excuse to spend more time with her…  
          Pilkington shrugged as she sat down in an empty chair across from Scorpius.  “She’s not looking bug-eyed at me!  What do you think?”  
          Anthony looked again at Wycliff.  She still stood at the door with her wand clutched tightly pointed, not quite, but almost at him.  This was not good.  
          “She never does that around me,” protested Scorpius in a hurt sounding voice.  “And I’ve been doing Occlumency for over a year!”  
          “You, she knows!” informed Pilkington dryly as she reached out and took a petit four.  “Umbridge used polyjuice on Crowley,” Pilkington reminded Anthony.  “You could be anyone…” She popped the petit four into her mouth.  
          “Is that what this is about?” asked Anthony in confusion. “I’m _me!”_ he insisted.    
          “What did we find in Scorpius’s pocket?” Wycliff asked in a quavery voice.  
          “Huh?”  
          “Back at H2?  What did we find?”  
          “What are you talking about?” questioned Anthony in confusion.  “You didn’t find anything in Scorpius’ pocket!”  
          “How about yours?” followed up Fitzpatrick.  His wand was also drawn, not exactly pointed at Anthony, but close enough.   
          “One sickle or two?” added Wycliff.  
          “One!” snapped Anthony.  “And it was a _knute_ , not a sickle as you well know!”  
          “Yes,” agreed Holly.  “How’s Ivy,” she asked abruptly while directing her attention and wand at Scorpius.  
          “Fine!” snapped Scorpius.  “What’s it to you?”  
_“What was that about?”_ wondered Anthony.  
          “Nothing now,” answered Wycliff and she lowered her wand. “Why did you call this meeting?” she asked while walking into the room.  Fitzpatrick followed while stowing his wand.  The two sat down.  Fitzpatrick took the end chair and Wycliff sat between Pilkington and Fitzpatrick.  
          “What’s this all about?” questioned Fitzpatrick as he grabbed one of the petit fours.  He took a small bite of the corner, smiled and popped the whole thing into his mouth.  
          Anthony drew in a breath.  “I’ve just come back from Europe,” he told them importantly.  “Hogwarts business.”  
          “So?”  Fitzpatrick was not easily impressed.  
          “So, I’ve been checking out the new professors!”  That got their attention.  
          “Professors?” questioned Pilkington with interest.  
          “Yes, we’ve got four of them.  They will be replacing Professors Slughorn, Longbottom, Lovegood and Iverson.”  
          “But—why?” asked Wycliff with a worried expression on her face.  
          “Nothing serious,” Anthony assured them.  “It’s a Professor Exchange.  Professors Slughorn and Longbottom will be going to Durmstrang for the year while Professors Lovegood and Iverson will be teaching at Beauxbatons.  In turn, those schools will each be sending us two of their professors to teach at Hogwarts.”  
          “Oh.”  
          “What does that have to do with us?” questioned Fitzpatrick. He reached out and grabbed another petit four.  
          “Well, I reminded Headmistress McGonagall that, while the replacement professors may be qualified to teach Hogwarts classes, they have never been sorted and so would not be suited to act in the capacity as House Heads. I further suggested that it would be less disruptive if you four were elevated to the title of House Head for this school year rather than disrupt the student body with four new professors _and_ four strangers hired from outside the school to act as House Head in the absence of the regular professors.  The positions come with pay, too.”  Anthony looked around the group as he spoke.  Scorpius was smiling.  He already knew about the position and had quickly agreed when Anthony suggested it, no doubt already mentally adding the title to his resume. The other three stared back at Anthony without speaking.  “Well? What do you think?”  It should be a no brainer—House Heads never did much of anything anyway.  Pay and a title?  Who would refuse?   
          There was a moment of silence—a long moment of silence.  Way too long!  “Well?” repeated Anthony.   
          The three looked at each other wordlessly and then back to Anthony. “What do I think?” began Fitzpatrick as he reached a long arm out for another petit four, “Not much.” He took several in his hand as he spoke and grabbed some more with his other hand.  “I’m out of here!”  He stood. Wycliff and Pilkington stood as well. “Thanks for the sweets,” he added and turned clearly intending to leave.   
          “But, I don’t understand...”  
          “We let you take credit about H2 because that was the deal,” stated Pilkington coolly.  “But we will not be part of any other story you wish to tell.”  
          “Wait, what deal” questioned Wycliff in surprise as she slid her chair under the table.   
          “Nothing that involves you,” said Pilkington dismissively. “I hear there’s a sale at Boot’s.  Want to check it out?” she asked Wycliff.  
          “Uh, sure…”  
          Anthony stared in disbelief as the three continued on out of the room.  Fitzpatrick stepping aside to let Wycliff and Pilkington out first.  “Wait!” he called after them.  “What do you want?”  
          Fitzpatrick stopped. They all did right outside the door. Fitzpatrick turned his head and fixed his steely blue-grey eyes at Anthony.  “The truth!”  
          “But, that’s what I said…” blurted Anthony involuntarily. It had been, sort of.  Manasa was certain McGonagall would have never thought to elevate that particular four as House Heads had they not first been Anthony’s “Advisors.” And they would have never been Advisors were it not for Anthony and H2.  They owed him everything—their title, prestige, everything!  And they now owed him for the House Head position.  Why not just say so?  
          Fitzpatrick stared at Anthony wordlessly for what seemed like an eternity.  Abruptly he turned away.  “Forget it!” Fitzpatrick muttered and stepped out the door slamming it shut behind.    

~~~~~~~~~~~

          “Well, that was a bust!” commented Scorpius.  “They’re not coming back any time soon,” he observed aloud as he grabbed some more petit fours from the plate.  “It would have been cool to be a House Head,” he told Anthony, “but I’ll manage.  How much did you want to be Assistant?”

 

*****


	32. Vernon

          “Holly, can I borrow, um, you know, Rupert tomorrow?” Holly Wycliff and her brother Vernon were on their way home from Judo practice. They had taken a bus there and back and were walking home from the bus stop.   
          Holly looked at her brother.  “Why?” she asked curiously.  Rupert was his own person. Technically, Holly couldn’t “lend” him out but Rupert was part of Holly’s “Wizard” world and she had his contact information…  
          “Well, I’ve gotten this letter asking me to meet Miranda’s father…” Vernon began hesitantly.   
          “So?”  
          “He’s, um, rich,” Vernon continued.  “I can’t go see him on foot or walking!”  
          “I could drive…” Holly offered.  She had recently gotten her driver’s license. Vernon hadn't a license; it required "buckling up" and Vernon wasn't ready to do that yet, maybe never.  
          “How would that look?” he protested. “My sister driving me using mum’s car?” Vernon was old enough to get a license but couldn’t bear to “strap” in even to take the test.   
          “You could take a taxi…”  
          “A ratty taxi?”  
          “Not all taxis are ratty,” replied Holly knowing Vernon was probably thinking of Stan’s taxi which did look rather ratty.  
          “I don’t know them.”  
          He had a point.  It was nicer with a driver you knew.  But Rupert’s limo seemed a bit much.  “I know, why don’t you give Stan a call, tell him what you want and I’m sure they can work something out.”  
          “Okay.”

***** 

          The shiny dark blue Bentley slid to a stop in front of the door.  Rupert, dressed in a formal chauffeur suit, got out, walked around the auto, and opened the door.  Vernon Wycliff got out.

*****

          “I expect you are wondering why I asked you here,” began the stern-faced person sitting across from Vernon Wycliff.  His name was Andrew Jones.  Vernon had met him briefly at the Debutante Ball the previous year. Mr. Jones had streaks of gray in his black hair and Vernon could see traces of Miranda in the jawline.  Otherwise Vernon would have never known the two were related.  
          “Yes, sir,” answered Vernon slipping into the respectful voice he used with his father and Headmaster Portermeyer.  
          “I want to know your intentions.”  
          “Intentions?”  
          “Intentions!  You’ve been dating my girl,” he told Vernon.  “I want to know your intentions.”  
          “No! I haven’t been dating Miranda,” denied Vernon.  They just hung out together a lot.  
          “You’ve been seeing her for over two years,” Mr. Jones reminded Vernon. “That’s _dating_ as far as I’m concerned.  So, what are your intentions?”  
          “Don’t you trust your daughter?” blurted Vernon.  
          “My daughter associates with people who wear black, have pasty white skin and wear _vampire_ teeth!” Mr. Jones told Vernon.  “I know all about _them!_  I don’t know about you!”  
          Vernon stared at Mr. Jones blankly.  How was he supposed to respond?  
          “I’ve had you investigated,” continued Mr. Jones picking up a folder that was on the desk in front of him.  He opened the folder and continued talking, “Been at Smeltings the last seven years.  Your scores are nothing to boast about…  And then there are the extra-curricular activities, theft, bullying, breaking and entering…  No police record, but I suppose Smeltings would want to avoid the negative publicity that would entail.”  Mr. Jones set the folder down.  “You haven’t led a very stellar life while at Smeltings, Mr. Wycliff,” he told Vernon. “I suppose the fact they still let you stay there would indicate you’ve been trying to turn your life around…” Mr. Jones conceded.  “On the other hand, you’re supposed to be a son of an alum but there’s no evidence of a Wycliff ever attending Smeltings.”  
          Vernon looked at Mr. Jones wordlessly.  It was all true, in its own way.   
         “So I looked into your family as well,” Mr. Jones continued. He lifted a second folder that was lying on his desk and opened it.  “Your family goes back at most 28 years!” he told Vernon.  Your father, if he attended school anywhere, did so at a half-baked P.S. in Bristol, and then, as near as anyone can tell, for only one year!”  Mr. Jones looked at Vernon accusingly.  It might have been a devastating announcement, but none of the information was news to Vernon.  He’d heard worse from Montague.  “Looks like your family has something to hide,” Mr. Jones accused. “Especially with that MIA sister of yours!”  
          “MIA?” questioned Vernon in surprise looking up at Mr. Jones.  
          “Yes, no hide nor hair of her after she dropped out of Puddinghamton School seven years ago—until this year when she applied for that driver’s license.  I couldn’t understand it until I took a look at the license photo.  She’s changed her name, hasn’t she?”  
          “Huh?”  
          “She was at the Debutante Ball arguing with you wasn’t she!” he accused.  “Your sister’s trying to distance herself from the family, isn’t she?  Well?” he asked demanding a response.  
          Vernon shrugged.  “Your investigation is fairly accurate, as far as it goes,” he told Mr. Jones, “but they’re a bunch of facts without reasons.  There are good reasons for all of that, but I don’t suppose the reasons are any of your business,” Vernon told Mr. Jones firmly.  “None of it is or was illegal, if that’s what you’re worried about, but neither is it your business.”  
          Mr. Jones gave Vernon a hard look, then closed the folder and put it back on the desk.  “So be it,” he told Vernon.  “Whatever the reasons, I don’t want you around my daughter.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled a thick wad of bills, more than Vernon had ever seen in one place before.  Mr. Jones placed the bills on the desk between them.  Then he pulled out a second packet of bills and laid it next to the first.  “I know why Miranda associates with those other creeps,” Mr. Jones began, “I don’t know about you, though.  You could be trying for a bit of social upgrading yourself!  Or, maybe it’s just the money you’re after.  Take it,” he told Vernon.  “And walk away from Miranda.  She deserves better than you.  If you pull out of her life, she’ll have a chance to find that person.”  
          Vernon stared at the money.  There was a lot of it, a whole lot!  But taking it came with a price.  Did he want to pay that price?  “I don’t know what my intentions are towards Miranda,” Vernon began slowly.  “Haven’t thought that far,” he admitted.  “But right now, Miranda is a friend and kind of like family.  You stand by your family; you don’t walk out on or abandon family, and don’t turn on family, ever,” he told Mr. Jones.  “Not for any reason!”  That much Vernon had learned from his parents.  Vernon’s grandparents had taken in Cousin Harry and Cousin Harry had taken care of Holly.  “You can keep that money,” Vernon told him, “better yet, donate it to an animal shelter…”  
          “Animal shelter?”  
          “Yeah, Miranda likes cats.”  Vernon stood and stepped away from the desk before temptation took over. He reached the door without opposition.  
          Vernon reached his hand out for the doorknob when he heard, “A retainer!”  
          “What?”  
          “Use it as a retainer,” said Mr. Jones, “I understand you’re good with computers…”  
          “Send a proposal,” replied Vernon promptly. Business was business. “I’ll send you a contract.”  Kenny was firm on that.  Never, ever, take on work without a signed contract!  (Especially from strangers! And as far as Vernon was concerned Mr. Jones was as good as a stranger.)  Vernon opened the door and stopped.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his business cards.  Kenny had printed them up as soon as Vernon turned eighteen and was legally able to conduct business.  Vernon walked back to that stack of money and placed his business card on top.  Mr. Jones could ask one of those detectives digging into his life for Vernon’s address, but a business card looked more professional.  “I look forward to hearing from you,” Vernon added and then walked out without waiting for a response.

*****


	33. Holly/Conner/Daniel Pilkington

          “Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” said Wizard Pilkington.  
          Holly Wycliff stepped into his office.  “You wanted to see me?” she questioned curiously.   
          “Yes,” said Wizard Pilkington.  “Have a seat, please.”  Holly took the seat he indicated across from his desk.  Two thick official looking folders were laying on the desk.  
          “I believe congratulations are in order,” began Wizard Pilkington conversationally.  
          “What”  
          “Your birthday,” he clarified.  “Happy Birthday!  You’ve turned 17, right?”  
          “Um, Yes, but that was a while ago.”  
          “Nevertheless, it is a moment to be celebrated in the wizarding world and one of the reasons why I asked you in.”  
          “I don’t understand.” A letter had arrived in the mail requesting Holly meet with Wizard Pilkington giving a specific date and time but no explanation.  
          “Winky,” said Wizard Pilkington bluntly.  
          “Winky?”   
          “Yes, Winky is a house elf, your _father’s_ house elf.  I remember you indicated to me once you were concerned about what would happen to her should something happen to your father…”  
          “Um, yes, I had…”

          “Normally her ownership would fall directly on the next eldest male in your house but as your brother Vernon is not a wizard, that puts things in legal limbo….  So, I’ve drawn up some papers for you.”   
          “Ah, that was nice,” replied Holly politely.   
          Wizard Pilkington indicated a folder on his desk containing a stack of hand-written legal documents and continued. “These papers transfer the ownership to you should something happen to your father,” he told her. “Or, if you would prefer, and your father agrees, your father could immediately transfer ownership of Winky to you now that you’re an adult. That’s what these papers are for.”  Wizard Pilkington indicated the other folder he had on his desk.   
          “A birthday present, so to speak,” said Wizard Pilkington grandly.  “But it needs your father’s signature along with that of a witness, a wizard witness, your cousin Mr. Potter will do, to make it legal,” Wizard Pilkington told her.  
          “Thank you.”  
          “Now, what I want you to do is read through both sets of papers and make sure you understand them.”  
          “Now?”   
          “Yes. Seeing as it’s your father, I won’t be there to answer questions; that’ll be your responsibility,” Wizard Pilkington told Holly. “And I want you to know what’s going on so you can explain it to him.  Whatever set he decides to sign is fine with me or none.  The final choice is his.  But it’s better to get such things done long before the need becomes apparent.”  
          “Yes, sir,” answered Holly unhappily.  The prospect of reading a bunch of dry legalese was not to her liking.  
          “Now, I have some other appointments today, so why don’t you use the back room to read where you won’t be disturbed…” Wizard Pilkington suggested while rising from his seat.  
          “Yes, sir.”  Holly rose also taking with her the two folders.   
          “Something else you should be thinking of,” continued Wizard Pilkington as they walked, “is what happens to Winky should something happen to you…”  
          “To me?” Holly looked up at Wizard Pilkington with surprise.   
          “I know we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves,” he added, “but house elves live for quite a long time.  Should you gain ownership of Winky and then die without a wizard heir, what would happen to Winky?” Wizard Pilkington opened the door to the back room. “Think about it now,” he told her as he pulled out a chair, “and then you’ll have answers when we need them.”  Holly sat down.  
          “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to take care of,’” Wizard Pilkington told Holly.  “Feel free to ask questions should you need to.”  He shut the door leaving Holly alone in the room.  She sighed and opened the first folder.

*****

          “It’s so good to see you, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” greeted Wizard Pilkington warmly as Conner Fitzpatrick stepped into his office.  
          “What’s this all about?” Conner questioned.  He'd gotten an Owl from Thomas.  On the outside was a note penned from Ravindra—“How are things?” it asked.  Conner supposed it was Ravindra’s way of assuring him that _she_ had sent the owl and no one else knew his location. It worked.  Somehow it didn’t feel so bad if it was just Ravindra who knew where he lived. Within Thomas’s letter was a letter from Pilkington requesting his presence giving a date, location and time.   
          “I’ve a client,” began Wizard Pilkington.  “A Wizard Hanesydd.  He wants to write a book on the history of the Sword of Gryffindor. He wants to make it as complete as possible.”  
          “So?  What’s that got to do with me?”  
          “He wants to interview you!” explained Pilkington.  “Apparently, he couldn’t find you to ask, so, he came to me knowing Leila had associated closely with you at school.  He was hoping I might be able to contact you.”  
          “Oh.”  
          “Of course, Leila didn’t know where you lived,” Wizard Pilkington continued, “and when I couldn’t find you either I was afraid you might have gone “missing,” like Holly had, so I went to Wizard Thomas—” Wizard Pilkington paused giving Conner a chance to speak but Conner remained silent.  His family matters were none of Pilkington’s business.  Pilkington cleared his throat and continued, “I’m not sure what’s going on,” he said, “but Wizard Thomas assured me you were fine and said he’d forward the message to you…”  
          “Is this guy here?”  
          “No,” replied Pilkington.  “Given the difficulty I had contacting you, I thought it best to talk with you first and give you a chance to think about things and make a response without some anxious wizard hovering in the wings with quill in hand…”  
          “Oh, thanks.”  
          “No problem.  Now, what I have here is Wizard Hanesydd’s letter introducing himself and requesting to do an interview,” Pilkington removed a rolled piece of parchment from his desk and handed it to Conner.  “…and a copy of some of his other works you can look through to determine what kind of a writer he is.”  Wizard Pilkington indicated two other neatly bound books lying side by side on his desk. One was titled, _The Lost Diadem—found at last?_ And the other was titled _The Chamber of Secrets revealed._ “Take your time,” Pilkington told Conner.  “When you’re ready, let me know what you want to do.  And I’ll do what I can to help.   If you wish to meet, I can set that up for you.  If you don’t, that’s fine too. I’ve paper and quill if you wish to write a response or you can give one to me verbally and I’ll pass it along.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some other things to do.”  He rose and walked away leaving Conner alone with the books and scroll in hand.  
          Conner looked at the scroll curiously. It had his name written neatly in cursive on one side.  The other side was sealed closed with a dab of bright red sealing wax.  He broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. The letter pretty much stated what Pilkington had already said but with more and longer words.  Apparently, Conner was one of two wizards “documented” to have drawn the Sword of Gryffindor within recent times and Wizard Hanesydd felt it essential to include that experience within his book.  Conner briefly wondered whether the “other” person was Professor Longbottom or Mr. Potter, but decided it had to be Longbottom. Conner knew Mr. Potter had used the sword because Albus had told him but that didn’t mean it was _public_ or  _documented_ knowledge, especially the way Mr. Potter never talked about anything.  Professor Longbottom, however, was portrayed in that Memorial painting holding the sword…  Then Conner wondered if Professor Longbottom had agreed to do an interview…. Was he as closed mouth about it as Mr. Potter?  Perhaps there was a reason for it…  
          Conner set the letter down thoughtfully and picked up the nearest book.  The cover depicted a statue of a lady wearing some sort of crown or headgear.  He flipped the book over to the back and learned that a “diadem” was another word for crown and this particular crown somehow imparted wisdom and had once been owned by Rowena Ravenclaw, founder of the House of Ravenclaw at Hogwarts…  
          “Father?”  Conner looked up and saw Leila Pilkington standing in the doorway.  
          “Be right with you!” announced Wizard Pilkington cheerfully as he stepped into view.  “I was thinking,” he began, “If it’s all right with you, that as Mr. Fitzpatrick and Miss Wycliff are also here, that I might take you all out to lunch today. I’ve spotted this interesting Muggle place I’ve been wanting to visit…”  
          “Holly’s here?” questioned Leila looking about.  
          “Yes, in the conference room reviewing some legal documents. Why don’t you check in on her and see if she needs any help...”  
          Leila nodded.  She entered the office, nodded a greeting to Conner as she passed and knocked on a door on the opposite side before opening it.  “Holly?” Conner could hear Leila say, “You ready for lunch?  Father’s treating…”  
          “Uh, sure,” came Holly’s voice from inside.  Conner could hear the sound of a chair scraping—Holly was moving pretty fast; Conner guessed either Holly was finished or whatever she was looking at was pretty boring…  
          Soon Holly and Leila came into view.  Holly held a thick stack of papers in her hands.   
          “Any problems?” questioned Wizard Pilkington.  
          “No,” answered Holly.  “I’ll take these to my father and get back to you.”  
          “Excellent,” smiled Wizard Pilkington.  “And you?” he questioned turning his attention to Conner.  
          “I’ll have to think on it,” said Conner.  He flattened the scroll and put it in the book like a book mark.  In a single motion he rose with both books in one hand to review later and prepared to leave. Free food was free food—especially if it didn’t squeak or change flavours mid-bite.   
          “Hi!” announced a new voice at the doorway.  Conner’s head swung around and he looked up at the face of Anthony Richards!  
          “What are you doing here?” Conner asked coldly.  
          “I believe you four have some things to discuss,” said Wizard Pilkington quietly.  “If you will excuse me.”  He slid past Richards and out the door.

*****

          Wizard Daniel Pilkington stepped briskly down the hall. Daniel always loved a challenge. Creating a situation where Leila, Holly and Conner were all in the same room at the same time with legitimate reasons so Anthony Richards could also meet them had been quite a challenge.  Holly was paranoid; Daniel’s _occlumency_ had to be down around her and any anticipation Holly sensed had to have a logical source.  That was Conner’s appointment and arrival, and Leila's.   Leila was very observant so she couldn’t suspect anything either or Holly would pick up on it.  That was why Daniel had arranged to have lunch with Leila and set the other appointments to happen around the same time. Holly would surely realize it was more than a coincidence that Conner and Leila were there at the same time but would hopefully think the meetings were deliberately arranged that way just for the opportunity to share a lunch together afterwards. None of them could know about Anthony or they wouldn’t have come—they were very angry at him at the moment with good reason.  Now, it was up to Anthony to make amends, if he could.

*****


	34. Anthony

          “I’m sorry!” blurted Anthony Richards before his first instinct of denial and to proudly stalk away took over.  It wasn’t easy to do while looking at the three grim faces in front of him, Wycliff’s wand already out and aimed at him.  “I made a mistake before and I’d like to try again.” That was true enough. 

 _Paige had been furious when she’d heard what had happened. “You fool!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t you_  
 _learn anything about dealing with inferiors!” she hissed angrily at_ _Anthony._  
 _“Of course, I did!” insisted Anthony.  Though in truth, maybe he had been too confident, too assured_  
 _of his position to think of such things—perhaps his mind was on other things, like the sweetness of Manasa’s_  
 _perfume..._

          “What’s the truth?!” demanded Fitzpatrick coldly.  
          Anthony gulped.  That wouldn’t sound good either.   
          “Come on!” growled Fitzpatrick at Anthony’s silence. “I’m hungry!”  He moved towards the door; Pilkington and Wycliff did also.  
          “McGonagall put me up to it!” blurted Anthony quickly before they got out the door knowing as spoke how _lame_ it sounded—more like another excuse than the truth.  But he had to say something or they would walk out on him again; Anthony knew with certainty they would not give him a third chance.   
          The three stopped and returned their attention to him. Anthony used the opportunity to continue explaining.  “She said if I didn’t get you to agree to be House Heads then she would find someone else to be her “Assistant!”   
          “Who suggested us?” asked Pilkington bluntly.  Her brown eyes seemed to pierce through Anthony but at least they hadn’t pushed past him and were still talking.  
          “McGonagall,” answered Anthony promptly, “though I would have probably said the same had she given me a chance,” he admitted.   
          “Give me one reason why we should help you with this!” stated Fitzpatrick aggressively.  
          “Because, um you’re my _friends?”_ answered Anthony hesitantly. 

                     _“They’re not my friends!” Anthony vehemently denied when Pilkington first made the suggestion._  
 _“What is your definition of a friend?” he countered._  
 _“You hang out with friends,” Anthony began._  
 _“Like after H2?” Pilkington murmured._  
 _“And they stick up for you and don’t rat you out!” Anthony’s voice died remembering that they_  
 _had done just that after Paige’s arrest…_

          “Lookit, I know I know we don’t really like each other,"  Anthony continued aloud, "but we do, sort of, and McGonagall’s got me coming and going on this! Do you have any idea how it would look if you don’t agree?  Assistant for a year, and then, when the fanfare dies down, she _dumps_ me!  No matter what the reason, the rumours would fly—why did she dump me? There’s always the official reason and then there’s the _real_ reason!  What is she not saying about me?  Do you think anyone would actually believe me if I explained?  They don’t know about last year’s arrangement,” he reminded. “The rumours will still fly—why won’t you three work with me?  Why can’t I convince you?  What are you not saying?  Either way, I’m ruined!”  
          Anthony stared their down their hostile faces for what seemed like an eternity.  
          Then Pilkington shifted her stance.  “What kind of work is involved in being a House Head?” she asked.  
          “Um, I don’t know,” confessed Anthony.  Maybe Paige was right, he _had_ been sloppy in getting the details and appealing to House inclinations...  
          “But I’m not sure I’m even going to Hogwarts next year,” stated Wycliff in a complaining kind of voice as she pocketed her wand.  
          “You have to,” stated Pilkington.  “You need to work on your people skills.  Besides, Madam Pomfrey has been collecting all sorts of healing books for you.”  
          “And if you stay home _we’ll_ be left to deal with all the rumours!” stated Fitzpatrick. “Richards is right!” he continued.  “If McGonagall sacks him there _will_ be rumours and we’ll have to defend  _him!”_   Fitzpatrick shuddered.  “Not to say I wouldn’t love to see you go down, but for something _you_ did, not me!” he added firmly.  
          “If the House Head work cuts into my studying _you’re_ staying up to help me get it done!” threatened Pilkington.  She stepped forward and past Richards as she spoke.  
          “Done!” promised Anthony promptly venturing a mental sigh of relief and hope.  Had she just agreed to be a House Head?   
          “I’m no House Head!” protested Wycliff as she followed Pilkington barely giving Anthony a glance as she passed.  
          “You’re a natural!!” assured Fitzpatrick as he followed her out the door.  “You had all that experience at it last year!” Fitzpatrick stopped at the entrance and looked at Anthony.  “You coming?”  
          “Uh, sure!” agreed Anthony.  He twisted to follow.  Had they just agreed or not?  When he got to the entrance, Fitzpatrick puffed up blocking Anthony’s way.  “And if it ever gets out that I might have agreed to be a House Head for any reason _other_ than to keep Holly company and protect her from you, I _will_ deny it!”  
          “Me too!” Anthony agreed fervently.  His reputation as a Slytherin would be ruined if classmates thought he was _friends_ with a Gryffindor!  Fitzpatrick turned; Anthony followed.  “Where are we going?” he asked as they walked down the hall.  
          “To find father,” answered Pilkington.   
          “Why?”  
          “He promised to take us to lunch— _all_ of us!”  
          “At some Muggle place,” contributed Fitzpatrick.  
 _“I’m_ picking the place!” declared Wycliff firmly.  Everyone stopped.  
          “You?”  
          “Why?”  
          “Where?”  
          “Haven’t decided yet but it’s gonna be someplace _expensive!”_  
          “That works!” agreed Fitzpatrick.  The group resumed walking.  
          “And don’t let father _bill_ you for the meal!” added Pilkington looking directly at Anthony.  
          “Wait, what! You know?”  It had been an act of desperation to go to Wizard Pilkington as a client, a _paying_ client, but the offer got Pilkington’s attention and signified how important the situation was to Anthony.  
          “Father moved out way too quickly for it to be anything other than a set-up,” declared Pilkington.  
          “And his emotions when he left,” continued Wycliff, “it was like a cat that caught a canary!  He’s gonna pay, _big!”_  
          “Speaking of which, you aren’t planning on curry were you?” asked Fitzpatrick.  
          “Nope!” answered Wycliff.  
          “Why not?” questioned Anthony.  Manasa seemed to like curry…  
          “Not expensive enough!  I’m thinking of this place I heard of in London that supposedly costs £300 per person!”  
 _“Pounds? What was that?”_ wondered Anthony.  
          “That sounds promising!  What kind of food?”  
          “Um, Sushi?”  
          “Sushi!!!  Forget that! I want to _enjoy_ what I’m eating while I’m sticking it to Pilkington!” growled Fitzpatrick.  
          “It’s not that bad!” said Wycliff defensively. “It’s probably quite good!”  
          “What? You mean you don’t know for sure?” questioned Pilkington.  
          “Sushi, yes, but not _£300_ sushi”  
          “What’s sushi?” whispered Anthony to Pilkington.  
          “Raw fish!”  
 _“Raw fish!???”_ “I know of some expensive places…” Anthony volunteered loudly.  
          “Good food?”  
          “The best,” Anthony assured. “But, um they’re in France…”  
          “France?  As in those snacks at the other meeting?” asked Fitzpatrick with interest.  
          “Yes.”  
          “That works.  France it is!”  
          “O.K.” agreed Wycliff, “but only because I’ve never been there before…”  
          “Getting there could be problematic,” mused Pilkington as they walked.  
          “Naw,” assured Anthony.  “I know all the portkey location and timetables to France.”  Not that he liked using portkeys.  
          “I’m _not_ going by _portkey!”_ voiced Wycliff firmly.  
          “We could Apparate,” suggested Fitzpatrick.  He must have passed his Apparating test too. It was difficult but not impossible to Apparate to someplace unfamiliar.  
          “I _hate_ Apparating!” declared Wycliff.  
          “We could always use Winky…” suggested Anthony smoothly.   “ _Friendship”_ came with the house elf didn’t it?...He’d never traveled by house elf before. Was it anything like Apparating?  
          “Winky is _not_ a transport!” retorted Wycliff primly.  “How _dare_ you suggest such a thing!”  
          “I should think Winky would welcome a bit of activity,” replied Pilkington.  “It’s bound to be boring hiding around your father’s house…”  
          “She’s not hiding!  She’s with me!” answered Wycliff tartly.  No doubt invisible.  
          “Then you could ask her…” put in Fitzpatrick.   
          Both Fitzpatrick _and_ Pilkington agreeing _with_ him?  Anthony straightened with pleasure.  Things were looking better and better. The next school year was promising indeed.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this; it was fun to write. Yes, this was just an interlude--I am working on the next. But it may take a while as it's the last school year not just summer. Even though I have begun writing, the plot is still pretty nebulous and not set in stone; any and all ideas of how to continue are always welcome.


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